


The Stranger, The Better

by Geertrui



Series: You Can't Cook Your Feelings, Erik [1]
Category: X-Men (Movies), X-Men: Days of Future Past (2014) - Fandom, X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Modern: Still Have Powers, Canon Jewish Character, Charles You Will Be Drunk, Demisexual Characters, Drunken Flirting, Erik Has Feelings, F/M, Fake Love to Real Love, Fake/Pretend Relationship, First Time, Heavy Petting, M/M, Rom-com, Sharing Clothes, Sharing a Bed, Size Kink, Smitten Erik
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-09
Updated: 2015-03-31
Packaged: 2018-03-17 02:57:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 40,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3512627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Geertrui/pseuds/Geertrui
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On a Friday night that could have - and should have - been spent at the restaurant, Erik instead finds himself at the snacks table of an 18th birthday party, where he meets Charles Xavier and becomes tangled up in the erroneous reputation the kid tows around with him: that Xavier is a floozy, and can't hang onto a person for more than one evening. Under the incentive of promotion for his restaurant, Erik agrees to be Charles' partner to eradicate whatever nonsense his friends spout about him - only, like most things in Erik's life, it all goes completely belly up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Don't Take This the Wrong Way

**Author's Note:**

> I'll be updating this once a week, probably every Tuesday, but because I'm in Australia that might end up as Monday evenings for the rest of the world, haha. :)

The first thing that really confounds and confuses Erik is why the party is being held in a hangar. Another thing that Emma hadn’t exactly clarified was the fact that the party is, actually, an eighteenth, with clusters of twenty-somethings all milling and waving and swaying on their heels and spilling cheap beer down their fronts. Added together, the combination of these two key factors have left Erik standing solitary by the large roller-door entrance in a state of awkward alienation, unopened can of bourbon in his hand and roughed up pack of cigarettes sitting heavily in his pocket.

He can leave. He can just go out for a cigarette, and accidentally find himself sitting behind the wheel of his car and twenty minutes later, accidentally find himself lying in his bed, away from the throng of barely-legal party-goers and even further away from any sort of stains against his reputation he could gain; a man of nearly thirty years, being at such a venue, with such patrons. His motives would be questioned. Kids mill out on the gravel and the grass as well as inside, though. Their phone screens light up their eyes, and the slow throb of the red tips of their cigarettes between their teeth light up their lips. He doubts he would make it to his car before one pulled him up.

“It’s my friend’s sister’s birthday,” Emma had said after the peak of the night, placing the orders on the metal strip while Erik moved the magnets to secure them. “A week from now. I need a plus one, so if it goes terribly awkward I can at least have you to talk to. It’s bring your own, but there will be enough aluminium cans in the place, no one would notice a few go missing if they were drunk enough and you didn’t move. Will you come?”

It wasn’t like Erik could say no. Emma knows he doesn’t do anything aside from work, work out, and work more. He’d looked at the five new orders slotted up in front of his station, sighed, yelled at Alex to work faster, and complied, and a week later Emma had told him she needed to cover someone’s shift and that she was sorry, have fun without me. Erik thinks he only ended up going to spite Emma and prove her wrong and that yes, he does go places besides the restaurant and the park to jog and his apartment. That, and Emma had tied him to this by using him as courier for her gift to the birthday girl. He would have kept it himself but he knows from Emma’s previous spoils on him that she only gives soaps and bath salts, and he only has a shower. She knows that, too, now.  

The hangar is not a gargantuan open space, and is reduced even more by the small crop dusting and courier planes that are stationed along the opposite side to Erik. A line of squared, thin wooden planks all sat on their sides act as a barrier. Plastic chairs are littered few and sparse over the concrete floor, occupied by kids who look like they’ve had a bit more than alcohol tonight. Further up the room there are two compactable tables with trays of dips, chips and olives all settled inside being ignored by the patrons, and by the bottles in their hands. The playlist that is pumping out of some whacky colour changing speakers has already played through once, but Erik is just grateful that it isn’t blasting through the entire space, echoing and doubling the sound and limiting his already waning tolerance for the situation. It isn’t that he doesn’t like parties. It’s just that he isn’t twenty anymore.

Emma’s gift is slowly beginning to grow weighty, and its recipient, wherever she is, has not made it obvious that this is her party. There are some middle-aged men and women at the far end of the hangar, but Erik’s not too keen to ask them for anything. He ends up approaching a young man half a head shorter than himself, and looking drunk and pliable enough that Erik could probably ask him his most personal secrets and he would willingly tell him. He’s going to town with the pot of tzatziki before Erik clears his throat and he startles, holding up his hand, and chewing exaggeratedly and apologetically on his cracker after Erik asks, “Excuse me, do you happen to know a girl named Raven here?”

There’s a warm brush against his mind, and he frowns because he hasn’t even opened his drink let alone taken a sip. Maybe the kids outside weren’t only smoking tobacco. He can’t think too much on it before the guy answers him, managing to get out a ‘sorry’ around his cracker and tzatziki combo before continuing, “Raven’s my sister, it’s her birthday.” Ah, this is Emma’s friend.

The light crease of Raven’s brother’s eyebrows settles simultaneously with Erik’s thoughts. “You’re Emma’s chaperone! I was wondering; you’re mildly old for this type of thing, aren’t you?” Erik can’t get a word in, too confused and concerned, before the young man is talking again. “Where’s Emma? She couldn’t make it?” There’s a bottle of opened cider in the brother’s hand. Erik glances at it pensively.

“I’m just here to give on Emma’s gift to Raven.” He deposits it on the table, not really caring anymore because he’s been here twenty minutes already and that has been twenty minutes too long. As Erik turns, the brother grabs his arm, settles his drink, and replaces it with other yogurt slathered cracker.

“No, no, I’m sorry, don’t go. My name is Charles Xavier. I met Emma at the TTMA. It’s nice to meet you.” Brother Charles offers him a twiggy stick as a peace gift, but Erik tightens his mouth apologetically and declines.

“Kosher, I’m sorry. Erik. Emma and I work together.” Charles shrugs and drops the sausage back on the table. He sticks his hand out as a formality, and Erik gives it a shake. “TTMA; you’re telekinetic?”

“Telepathic, actually. Sorry for the invasiveness, when I drink, my control sort of,” Charles makes a shaky gesture with his hand. “Sorry to confuse you.” Well, that eases Erik’s disposition at least. Charles smiles at him knowingly. “Raven is somewhere here, she’s brunette. At the moment. _I’ve_ hardly been able to keep up with her, but I’ll go put this with her other gifts. Thank you for coming, Erik, and thank you to Emma for the gift. Could you tell her I’ll see her at the meeting next week?”

 Erik doesn’t doubt that Charles could probably tell her himself via their telepathy, the way Emma sometimes projects to him from work about some shitty customer while he’s jogging and he nearly falls, but Charles has already ducked away from the table and off to a side room.

He shifts awkwardly at the table. He should leave now. He has no reason to say. But there’s an unopened pot of hummus on the tabletop, it isn’t Passover and his mother isn’t here, and he really does love hummus. And Charles had been nice. He probably should have told him about his mutation, kept the conversation going. But then, Charles probably already knew.

*

Half an hour later, Erik is still standing in the hangar at the eighteenth at the table, and finally decides to open his can of bourbon. The hummus is gone. He’s not even apologetic.

He’s figured out who Raven is. They sang a song, cut a cake, and Erik realised what Charles meant by ‘at the moment’ because he’s kept his eye on her and she’s already changed from brunette to blue scales to blonde. Now, she’s surrounded by her friends as one stands on a chair and holds a bladder of cheap wine above her and steadily dribbles it into her mouth. The rest of them are shouting out a song that really only means, ‘ _drink, drink, drink’_ and cheering when the wine splashes over her face and down her shirt. She simply shapeshifts into a new one.

Two girls have started crying near Erik, because of how beautiful the other is. A Latina girl is trying to fly more than a metre from the ground, but she’s already had too much to drink to show off her mutation. Now Raven has her face in the crook of a boy’s neck, and Erik bets his glasses are fogging from how flustered he probably is. But Erik can’t find Charles. He hadn’t been as young as the others, but Erik knows from the times Emma has come round to his apartment with a casket of cheap wine, that drunk telepaths always find themselves leaching inebriation from their wasted buddies, intentionally or not, and they end up twice as gone than they’d intended to be. Charles could be drowning in his own sick, no matter how much more older or mature than the others he seemed.

Now he’s caring about the welfare of a drunk kid who tried to give him a sausage as a greeting. He needs a cigarette.

Compared to the stuffy atmosphere in the hangar, outside is fresh and crisp, and just on the good side of breezy, but Erik still misses the heavy presence of the planes. He can still feel them, but being surrounded by metal had been a good feeling. Comforting. A few groups of kids in clusters of two or three sit spilling drunk secrets to each other on the grass. One person is vomiting. Erik pulls a cigarette up to his mouth and shields it, using his powers to light it. His car isn’t far. His mouth fills with the stale that seems to suck up any wetness on his tongue. His bourbon he left forgotten on the table but he remembers it with the unpleasant taste of sweet cola meeting bitterness, and he pulls a face to himself as he starts to walk over to his park.

He kicks, something, something that makes a noise, and looks down to find Charles sprawled on his back, eyes closed.

“Charles?” he says around his cigarette, but there’s no response, and he feels a sliver of fleeting panic shoot up his spine. He crouches, holds the smoke between his knuckles and gently shakes Charles’ arm with his left hand. “Charles, are you alright? Can you hear me?”

“I’m okay, I’m just.. I’m okay. Give me a minute.”

Erik waits a minute and then five, and his legs cramp up from the crouch, so he sighs and settles down next to Charles and shifts him again. The butt of his cigarette is hot between his fingers and he crumples it into the dirt. “Charles? It’s Erik. Do you need anything? A water?”

He groans again, and turns his head to bury his face into Erik’s thigh, and Erik startles. Charles breathes deeply again, and then he manages to get his elbows behind himself and he eases up a little.

“I’m sorry, it’s just the telepathy. I can handle being around so many minds, just being around so many very _drunk_ minds… It’s a little hard to, shut them out.”

Erik’s not sure what to say. So he offers Charles a cigarette, and Charles laughs, shrugs a shoulder and takes one. Erik uses his powers to light up again, and Charles gasps quietly. “I can control metal,” he says softly.

“So I see,” replies Charles, before he sucks in the cigarette smoke and coughs loudly. A brief flash of sensation is sent to Erik, like his throat is constricting around sand. He laughs.

“You’re not supposed to breathe it in,” he explains. Charles splutters and hands off the cig to Erik. “You don’t want anymore?” and Charles shakes his head, trying to even his breathing.

“If you’re not supposed to breathe it in, what’s the point?” Charles spits. In the faint light, Erik can see him squinting at Erik, at Erik’s mouth – but really, it’s the cigarette in his teeth, the one Charles had wrapped his lips around, and Erik has to shut his mind down quick before it gets any ideas and starts to form any assumptions. Or feelings.

Erik ignores him, and asks instead, “You sure you’re okay? You want that water now?”

Charles waves his hand. “No, I’m okay, thank you though.” Quiet falls between them for a moment, the party lingering behind them. The night is clear, and the breeze ruffles Charles’ brown messy hair, which flicks and curls around his ears.

“Why is the party in the airport hangar?” Erik finally asks. He’s still confused about that. Confused and a little tipsy, and sitting next to Charles isn’t really keeping him sober. The kid is projecting his fogginess, and intoxication is almost rolling off him.

“Ah,” he starts. Then he doesn’t say anything for at least a minute and Erik wonders, god, is there even any point trying to talk, and god, will I ever know why I haven’t left yet.

Erik prompts him again, and Charles’ heavy lidded gaze slides over to him. Then he nods. “Yeah. It’s because. Raven’s friend, Henry, Hank, his father owns this hangar. He’s really. He’s really into planes? Which is cool, I guess. He’s into planes and he said Raven could use this place, because, he, secretly between me ‘nd you, he loves Raven. It’s okay. I approve.”

It takes him probably five minutes to finish saying the entirety of his passage, and Erik sighs. _Would you rather talk like this?_ He projects.  

_Emma? Cool._ Charles replies. “I think… I’m just gonna. Sleep for a bit, okay?”

“What, here?” Erik asks incredulously. The ground isn’t damp but the soil is rich, and slowly caking into the fibres of Charles’ knitted cardigan, which Erik supposes is rich too, but by another definition.  

His eyes are already shutting and he’s lying back down in the grass. “Just a power nap… Please stay here? Thanks so much.”

Charles is gone and Erik sighs, finishes the cigarette, sighs again and pulls his phone out. Emma has messaged him asking how it’s all going. Erik doesn’t reply. He pulls up a game, thinks about new specials for work, thinks about all the good karma he’s racking up with the universe for sitting here. An edge of sobriety comes when he quickly gets a cup of water from inside. Charles hasn’t moved when he returns. The cotton in his head has faded, with the kid’s unconsciousness. It’s not like he’d put more alcohol in Erik’s blood, he’d just put the side effect of it in Erik’s mind.

Erik’s not sure what constitutes as a power nap, but half an hour later Charles stirs and sits up. His eyes widen as he takes Erik in, shoulders bristling and mouth tight but his muscles lax when he recognises him.

“How do you feel?”

“A lot better, thank you,” Charles smiles. He glances at Erik sheepishly; opens and shuts his mouth, and suddenly is really interested in the grass.

“Good. I’ll get you a water,” Erik says for him. There’s a curl of something in Erik’s chest as he gets up and heads inside, ducking under the roller. Responsibility. Duty of care. Erik hopes he can cash in his benevolence and good will and sometime this week stumble upon one million dollars left graciously on his kitchen counter.

Across the space, Raven has moved her mouth from the bespectacled boy’s neck to his lips, and Erik hopes quietly that he’s Hank.

When Erik returns, with two cups, Charles is fiddling with his phone but his fingers keep hitting the wrong parts of the screen. He doesn’t hear Erik next to him, and he sighs as finally his fingers do what his brain wants them to. Erik glances at his phone from above him. He’s able to make out that Charles is messaging Emma before he locks the screen. There’s a diamond icon next to her name. Erik uses the snowflake.

He clears his throat softly, and Charles startles a moment and looks up at him. There’s a small flush across his cheeks, but he smiles widely. “Thank you, Erik,” he says as he takes a cup. He finishes it in one go, and Erik gives him the other.

“Do you think you can stand up?” Erik asks after Charles hands the empty plastic cups back.

“I think I can try.”

The grassy section Charles has chosen to occupy is elevated only slightly, but Erik still stands in front of him to buffer him from stumbling down the mound and lading with his face in the gravel road. Maybe he has some sort of mentally orientated second mutation, because Charles wobbles on his feet and a moment later his weight is on Erik and one hand is gripping his bony shoulder and the other is pushing flat against his chest. Erik’s own hands come around Charles’ waist and middle, and he steadies the kid on his wobbly legs.

Charles laughs nervously and meets Erik’s eyes. With Erik standing lower like this they’re finally at the same height. He keeps looking down at Erik’s mouth.

He’s not going to do this. He swiftly pulls Charles’ hand – the one against his shoulder – around his neck, and moves his own arm to wrap around Charles’ middle. Ignores the noise Charles makes and slowly begins to walk them inside. “You’ve got to duck,” Erik mutters.

Back inside the party is still active, but Raven spies them and trots over to them, shouting.

“Charles! Are you alright? Where have you been, you ass?” She fixes Erik with an appreciative stare that quickly narrows, and she purses her lips. He doesn’t have to be telepathic to know what she’s thinking.

“He’s fine, Raven, he took care of me.”

“I’ll bet he did,” his sister mutters. Charles ignores her.

“This is Erik, friend of a friend. He can control metal.”

She fixes her brother with a stare and shifts her weight, hand on hip. They stare at each other for a moment and Erik realises they must be communicating telepathically, but then Charles accidentally projects not only to Raven, and he purses his lips when clear as a bell, _He’s not_ that _old, Raven!_ enters his mind.

“Whatever, slut,” his sister says with a smirk. Hank comes up behind her and wraps his arms around her waist. Erik’s still supporting Charles, limbs everywhere and bodies pressed together, and he purposefully keeps his mind clear. Charles must also feel the slight awkwardness at their position, so he slowly lifts his arm from around Erik’s neck and Erik peels his hand away from Charles’ neck. He doesn’t think that the way the kid strokes down his back as they separate is accidental. He’s wobbly, but he announces he’s going to the bathroom (“Don’t break the seal!” Raven’s shouting) and he makes it there in once piece. Raven and Hank drift off, drunk attention waning and weak.

When Charles exits, he teeters towards where he left Erik, but then someone shouts for him and he turns and is jumped on by a girl with bright red hair that rolls down her back, who then drags him in the opposite direction. Charles looks back over his shoulder apologetically, and Erik waves. As soon as he goes to wave back, a brightly coloured mixer is thrust into his open palm and for the second time, Erik is left standing awkward and alone.

*

Every time Erik goes to leave he can think of at least three reasons why he should stay.

The first is to surprise Emma. She’s so smug and proud about being able to figure people out that Erik, at a party, having made an acquaintance, would surely make her frown. For a moment.

The second is that if he keeps being nice to people and holding stranger’s drinks while they go to the bathroom, getting cups of water for people, sitting guard for _people_ while they sleep- he’s going to get a lot of brownie points. Cookie points. Cake points. All with the big man. Give a little to gain a little.

The third, is that sliver in his stomach that tells him to always keep an eye on Charles. Erik knows he’s in good hands with his buddies, but his buddies are drunk, probably can hardly move their hands save from the muscle memory of clutching a drink. And, Raven did only remember Charles was gone when she saw him again.

So, he’s standing against one of the corrugated iron walls watching Charles stand on a chair and down a drink from an obnoxiously long glass when his phone vibrates in his pocket. It’s Emma, and Erik sighs and answers.

“ _You never replied to me,_ ” she says in lieu of greeting, but her tone is jovial, and she sounds like she knows everything.  

“I was simply too busy having fun.” Erik’s tone is dry.

“ _You met Charles, though. He’s certainly a lot of fun.”_ Erik watches Charles shout and hold up the glass by its stupidly long neck.

“Oh, yes, he is.” Emma hums over the line. “Shouldn’t you be working?”

“ _I’m on my break, and besides, I just had to know how it was all going. I’m so regretful that I can’t be there to see you get all hot and bothered over a boy who’s almost ten years your junior.”_

Erik frowns. “I’m not- how old is he?”

“ _He’s twenty. Hardly jailbait – but you do stress so much, you look forty at times, darling.”_

Twenty isn’t so bad. It could be worse. Then Erik catches himself thinking that and wants to punch himself in the face.

Charles, from his vantage point high above the cluster around him, catches Erik’s eye and waves. Erik watches him hop down and then he is lost in a sea of drunk kids. He’s so short. But Erik knows he’s coming to him.

“I have to go, Emma.”

“ _What, so soon?_ ”

“Erik!” Charles calls happily, and Erik can hear Emma’s grin. She heard Charles, too.

“ _Oh, I see. I don’t want to keep you from him. Have a good night, sugar._ ”

The smirk in her voice makes him worry. Frantically, before she kills the line and before Charles can get to him, he asks, “Emma, have you told him anything? What did you say?”

“ _Oh no, it’s more what he’s told me._ ” The image of Charles and Emma’s message thread flashes in his mind. Emma’s contact with the diamond emoticon. _“Have fun.”_ Then the call cuts out.

Charles swipes a bright purple vodka mixer from a lone cooler-bag, opens it, and plods over with limited equilibrium to where Erik stands. “Who was that?” he asks casually, before he takes the phone that Erik still holds and replaces it with the drink. “You’re not calling a taxi are you? You’re not leaving me?”

“No, I’m driving tonight,” he says as he looks at the drink in his hand. When he looks up Charles is fiddling with his phone.

“You’ve got a lock on,” he says disappointedly. He continues before Erik can reply. “No matter, we can still take photos.”  Then Charles has his back pressed bodily up against Erik’s chest, his rear is quite deliberately against Erik’s thigh, and Charles is pulling a whole slew of faces as he quickly takes probably over two hundred photos in five seconds. Erik is just staring.

“You gotta, you gotta smile Erik.” Then quietly, “You’re so handsome.”

Erik attempts a small smile then, and when Charles cranes his neck back and rests it against Erik’s shoulder, he ducks his own head down to reach a similar height. Before his right hand can creep around Charles’ hip of its own accord, Charles says, “Alright, good. We have a few.” Erik breathes deeply as Charles puts his phone back into his front pocket, hand lingering on his thigh a moment.

“A few hundred, you mean.”

The grin Charles gives him is shocking and overwhelming and Erik can’t look anymore or he’ll do something stupid.

“I can’t drink this,” he covers. “I have to drive, and I’ve already had a little bit to drink.” He sticks his hand out and offers the drink to Charles, who flashes a smirk so quick Erik is sure he’d imagined it. Charles wraps his hands around the bottle, palms hot against Erik’s grip, and then Charles has his mouth on the bottle and he’s tipping the drink back and god, Charles’ eyes are shut now and his throat is fluttering as he swallows, swallows, swallows, and his lips are so red, and Erik wants to push the glass a bit more, make Charles take it, see how much he can drink, how far he can go. Charles’ grip is loose around his hand, but Erik’s knuckles are white. Charles gently runs his fingers over Erik’s thin hand, strokes his wrist, opens his eyes again and makes soft noises at the back of his throat and Erik really, really can’t handle this, can’t do this anymore.

The bottle’s only half empty when Erik pulls it back from Charles, his mouth open and following Erik’s movements. He’s panting, and his eyes are locked on Erik. He licks his purple lips, at where the drink dribbled down to his chin. Erik swipes it with his thumb. “Twenty,” he croaks.

“You’re twenty-nine.”

“Turning thirty.”

Charles shrugs.

With that, the moment ends. Charles smiles and plucks the drink from his hand, taking a small, innocent sip, then he links their arms and leans heavily against him he leads them into the throng of drunken kids. 

And then Erik is being introduced to everyone, and Erik lets it happen in a stunned trance because Charles is saying “This is my friend, Erik,” and Erik is really only friends with Emma, and the people he works with, and they don’t really hang out at all because they all work together so much. Erik knows Charles probably doesn’t mean it. Erik knows Charles probably won’t even remember his name come morning. But for now, it’s… nice.

Charles’ ability to bounce back is concerning and enviable. An hour ago he was lying in the grass comatose and dead to the world, and now he’s laughing his clear diamond laugh, warm and gentle and pliable against Erik’s side. At some point his hand moves down the underside of Erik’s forearm and laces their fingers together. Charles doesn’t look away from his friend as they chat - a dark girl with a shock of white hair - but Erik gazes down at him. Erik doesn’t know what’s happening, what this all means or what this all is or what they are or if they will be anything. But Erik can go home tonight and sleep deep and wake up and go for his run, and forget Charles, the party, and that any of this happened. But before that, it’s nice to pretend. He’s never had the time to get close to someone. This is nice. Charles has nice hands.

A lot of people look from Charles to Erik to Charles to Erik, each swing of their eyes pulling their eyebrows lower and their mouths tighter. Emma is right; Erik does look a lot older than almost-thirty. His cheeks are a little hollowed, brow a little set, and he already has crows-feet from having twenty orders every half hour per night at the least at the restaurant. The smoking probably doesn’t make him look any younger, either. But then Charles laughs and leans in closer and the other kid will smile nervously and nod a little and leave.

At some point, Charles gets to a state where he thinks it’s a good idea for Erik and Charles to dance. From the amount of rubbing up against him Charles has been doing all night, Erik is legitimately scared of what dancing for Charles means. His anxiety is quelled though, when Charles tugs him closer to the speakers, and holds his hands and simply sways on the spot, bobbing his head from side to side with his eyes shut and a small smile on his lips. Erik stands their awkwardly. Nobody knows him, nobody is sober enough to remember his weird attempt at dancing (even Charles) but _he_ will remember. He doesn’t know if he can handle that much shame and self-hatred if he even tries.

Charles is swinging their arms gently. He’s completely out of time with the music. Wearing a knitted cardigan and black jeans and a button up shirt he looks like an old man trying to groove along with the times and Erik can’t help the swell of affection that bubbles in his chest. Charles must have felt that because he cracks an eye open at him, tells him he _has_ to dance, and then wraps his arms around Erik’s neck, pulling them together. He presses his face to Erik’s shoulder and Erik really has no idea what to do anymore, so he gently puts his hands on Charles’ sides, but then he murmurs “Lower,” and Erik swallows heavily. He slides his hands down to Charles’ waist, and the boy hums, says, “Keep going,” and fuck Emma honestly. Erik’s hands stop at Charles’ hips. They’re pressed chest-to-chest and swaying a little, and Erik tells himself to just go with it. This is nice. They’re just two strangers dancing together, enjoying each other’s company. Erik thinks he might be getting drunk off of Charles again for all the sense that makes. But strangers have done worse things than hold hands and dance.

After a while Erik knows that Charles really is projecting his inebriation again because their movements are equally lethargic and lazy. They stumble over each other’s feet, and soon the swaying is led by their mutual lack of balance rather than the music. When Charles begins to sag a little, Erik calls his name and rouses him, then tries to drag-lead him over to a chair. “Are you alright? Do you need a water?”

“I think it’s time for bed,” Charles says with a yawn. His eyes are shut, jaw propped by his hand. Clarity filters through Erik’s mind, at last.

“I can drive you home, but you need to tell me where you live.”

Charles grunts and lurches forwards, and Erik thinks he’s going to be sick before he realises that Charles is just falling asleep.

“Charles? You need to wake up. What’s your address?”

He mutters something that is impossible for Erik to catch. He sighs and rubs his hands through his hair. “Can you project your address to me? A street sign?”

The image of an on-the-poorer side apartment block comes to him. That doesn’t help at all. There are thousands of apartment complexes in the city.

“I’m going to find Raven, I’ll come right back, Charles.”

Regardless of whether or not Charles hears let alone comprehends what Erik’s said, he sets off to find his sister. He hadn’t noticed the party dwindle, and now only twenty or so kids still mill around the hangar, none of them Raven. He asks a few if they know Charles Xavier, if they know where he might live, but they either give him crude or rude looks or knowing smirks, say, “Yeah, get it, man,” or walk away.

Emma. Emma would know. When the call rings out he tries again, just in case she hadn’t heard it, but it’s only ten pm and she’s probably still working.

Charles hasn’t moved since Erik left him, save for the tilted slouch he now sits in. Erik sighs again, runs his fingers through his hair again, and then steps up to him. “Charles, I’m going to take to back to my apartment, is that okay?”  

Erik’s not surprised when there’s no response, but he stoops and awkwardly tries to pick Charles up to his feet. It takes a moment, but he manages to get Charles’ arm over his shoulder and his arm around his middle. Déjà vu, he thinks dryly.

“Come on, can you try and walk for me? We’re nearly at the car.” Charles’ shoes scuff on the concrete flooring as he shuffles along, and by the time it takes for them to get anywhere near the vicinity of Erik’s car his muscles are beginning to strain along with his patience. He unlocks and opens the car with his powers. Charles hits his head on the door frame when Erik tries to gently lower him in, but he only groans once. Erik places his legs inside the car, leans over to buckle him up, and then sighs again. They’ve got this far.

“If you feel sick, please vomit out the window,” says Erik beseechingly as he pulls his own belt on. “Please just. Outside.”

Charles groans in response. Erik powers the window down regardless.

The airport and its attached hangar are probably ten minutes from the metropolis, and it takes a further ten minutes to wind through the streets to his apartment complex. Charles is sleeping steadily with his cheek pushed against the window frame. Shadows flicker over him and then warp and then disappear when contending neon lights from shop fronts cast down on him. The dregs of Friday night saunter and stagger and whoop as they walk down the streets; university students that care too little, girls in smeared mascara that cared too much. Erik tries to keep his eyes on the road.

He pulls up gently to his usual parking space – windows up, opens his door, unbuckles himself and Charles all at once with his powers. He opens Charles’ side manually, and catches him before he can flop onto the gravel. From there it’s just one struggle after the other (and really, the universe owes him big now), but finally, finally, they make it to the elevator and Erik slams the button for his floor with his entire palm. He pants, and moves the lift slightly faster. Charles is sitting with his back against the wall, head lolled to the side and not even conscious enough to project coherent thought. Relief and dread mix in his gut when the lift dings open, and Erik breathes deeply and says, “Come on, just a little bit more.” Charles doesn’t move.

Erik curses and grabs him under the arms, dragging him backwards out of the elevator. He’s sure his neighbours are going to crack open their door any second now, to see what all the grunting is about. See the beast take his prey into his lair. When he gets to his door he flings it open with his mind, flicks on a few lights, and decides he’s not even going to bother taking Charles to his bed. If he can sleep fine enough being dragged around like this, Erik reasons grumpily, he can sleep on the couch for one night.

Erik’s fit but Charles is dead weight and there’s no way he can lift him onto the couch. “Charles,” he says, voice harsh and crackling with exertion, wheezes ripping his throat up. “Charles, you need to just crawl onto the couch. You’re fine now, you can sleep, but you need.. please just… Get up.”

For the first time Charles complies and he gets onto the lounge well enough that Erik can push him the rest of the way. He’s home. Charles is fine and he is home and he can sleep. Life is good.

From there it’s a matter of prepping Charles for the morning to come. He sets two bottles of water on the coffee table near the couch, two empty ice cream containers In Case of Emergency (That He Really Doesn’t Want to Deal With) and four Panadol pills, popped and placed next to the waters. He gets Charles onto his side so if there is an accident he’s already good to go, pulls off his shoes and cardigan and unfolds the throw over him. In the morning he’ll figure out what to cook for Charles’ inevitable, unending hunger and need for grease. He can… make some hashbrowns, or something. He has a stick of garlic bread in the freezer. Order a pizza.  

When Erik gets into bed he hopes that he will forget tonight happened come morning.

*

Erik wakes up early, as he usually does, and texts Emma to come over within the hour. When she doesn’t reply after five minutes he calls her – twice – until she picks up and sleepily says, “What?” and Erik only tells her to check her texts and hangs up. He can’t hear any distressing sounds from the living room, but he’s still wary of checking Charles. Seeing if he’s awake. Seeing if he’ll remember how close they were last night. He really does need the bathroom though, and it seems crossing paths will be unavoidable. At least Emma will be here to cart Charles away soon. Make things less awkward. Maybe he’ll ask her to wipe his mind.

He’s only wearing a loose shirt and boxers when he pads out from his room across the short hallway to the bathroom, and Erik can see Charles’ socked feet poking off the end of the couch. He may as well have a shower to kill time while he waits for Emma. The hot water washes away last night’s haze and slew of bad choices, gone gone gone, and the tension in Erik’s shoulders soothes. He’s a little sore from carrying Charles so much last night. He doesn’t know if he’s even bothered to go for a jog.

He gets out fifteen minutes later, and wraps a towel around his waist, brushes his teeth to get rid of the stale in his mouth. When Erik opens the door, Charles looks up from where he sits on the couch, hair a bird’s nest, phone in hand and lips covering the neck of a water bottle. The sight of him like this is infinitely worse than Charles remembering one thing from last night.

Erik’s frozen and doesn’t know what to do, but Charles smiles gently and says, “Good morning, Erik.”

“Morning, Charles,” he croaks back. Moments pass, he should really just head to his room, it’s only a few paces away, but he finds himself asking, “How do you.. how do you feel this morning?”

“Better, thank you. Thanks so much for everything last night.”

So he does remember. Droplets of cooling water sluice down Erik’s chest, and he pretends it’s the cold that makes him bristle.

“Anytime.” His tone is stunted. His knuckles are white from gripping the towel. “Emma will come over soon. She’ll take you home.”

Charles doesn’t look disappointed, but there’s something and Erik pretends that there isn’t.

“At least let me take you to breakfast, to thank you for everything?”

“Sorry, I have to go to work in a few hours. Another time,” he lies. Charles gives him a look but doesn’t press it, and Erik hurries into his room. Then he realises that he lied to a telepath.

“Feel free to use the shower, and help yourself to anything in the kitchen,” he calls out, in the attempt to be less of an asshole. He doesn’t think it works.  

When he steps out again Charles is fussing around in the small kitchenette, phone pinned to his ear with his shoulder. Erik thinks he looks rather nice there, and then stops thinking for a little while. He’s used to having a telepath around, but he’d never had any unwanted thoughts he’d wanted to hide around Emma. Except for when she was giving him the shits by some means or another at the restaurant, but that frustration was often stress-induced and often felt mutually in equal amounts by both parties.

The party. Erik won’t think about it… He can’t, because Charles will hear and what if he _remembers…_

He’s on the phone to Raven, that much Erik can discern because Charles is sighing exasperatedly every few moments and can’t seem to be able to get a word in, sentences stuttering then dying on chapped lips, dyed a crude, muddled mix of a vodka flavoured rainbow. He pokes his nose into every cupboard before straightening and palming at his face. He turns to Erik when he hears him approaching and rolls his eyes dramatically before flashing a grin. _Toast?_ he projects to Erik with his eyebrows raised, glancing around, while he sighs into his phone. Erik pulls the half-loaf of presliced bread from the freezer.

“Honestly, I’m older than you, this should be me lecturing you…” _Freezer?_ he thinks in astonishment, and Erik simply quirks a brow. Charles’ ability to think and speak and not get it all mixed together is rather surprising, and also kind of hot. He’s used to projection and voices in his head that aren’t his own. But he’s used to Emma. And Charles is very much not Emma.

He plugs the toaster in and depresses two slices, and Charles leans over the counter opposite him, and Erik doesn’t look at him, or at his rear. Or the notches in Charles’ back that line his spine, prominent through his light blue button up. The cut angles of his shoulder blades.

“I love you, I honestly do, but Raven I am terribly hung over and I really can’t do this right now. I promise I am fine, I slept on the couch and if you don’t believe me I’m going to make you sit through the subconscious of my brain as I slept for eight hours.” His lips purse as he tries not to smile, tries to keep the Serious Big and Impenetrable Brother tone to his words. But he slips another “see you soon, I love you,” before hanging up and Erik’s heart jumps along with the _ping_ of the toaster.

“She worried?” Erik asks before the silence can get awkward, and so he has a distraction from the dark, messy curls that twine over Charles’ eyes.

“Yes, but I think she’s more angry at herself that she didn’t notice I was gone last night,” Charles laughs.

Erik pulls out two plates, and a jar of peanut butter from the pantry. “I tried to find her, some of your friends, but most people had left.”

They sidle up to the counter and Charles slathers his toast in peanut butter. Erik modestly scrapes his over the top and eyes Charles off. He usually doesn’t eat breakfast, save for an apple or banana. “Someone told her that I’d been ‘whisked away unconscious and vulnerable by a tall, dark, handsome man. Raven is very defensive. She doesn’t assume the worst of people, but you have to show her your best for her to know you mean no harm.”

Erik doesn’t miss the flirting. Apparently Charles doesn’t need alcohol for this. Erik certainly does, however.

“Well, I hope she had a good night.” Erik says stiffly.

“And did you?”

“I did,” Erik says quietly. Honestly. In the end, it was alright. “You?”

Charles smiles softly at him, eyes wide and eager. “Yeah, it was fun.” His gaze slides back to his toast and his brow pulls down, and Erik can see him processing his memories. “When I’m drunk, I can get a bit… I didn’t… I didn’t do anything weird, did I?”

Erik’s not sure what exactly constitutes as weird for a drunk Charles Xavier. Their proximity throughout the night? Parting his lips to let Erik push a bottle between his teeth and watch his throat move? Or that strange, adorable dancing at the end? “No,” he says, but it’s too late because Charles has flicked though Erik’s memories with him and his eyes are wide and his cheeks are red.

“Oh,” Charles says quietly, and he looks very small and very embarrassed. “I’m sorry-”

“No,” Erik says firmly and he looks at Charles, very hard and very intent. “Don’t be, it wasn’t-”

There’s a buzz on the intercom, and Emma Frost’s clear crystal voice cuts between them.

“ _I hope I’m not interrupting anything, but I am here to collect one Charles Francis Xavier, if he can still walk_ ,” she says, sing-song and light.

Charles turns red down to his neck and below his collar, and Erik sucks in a breath between his teeth and feels a twinge in his gut and goes to buzz Emma in. When he looks back at Charles, he’s standing by the lounge, pulling on his shoes, tucking the laces next to his socks in lieu of tying them, trying to get ready as fast as possible; so he can leave as fast as possible.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles again. “I’m very clingy, I know, Raven’s always saying…” _God, Raven, what is she going to think, what is_ everyone _going to think-_

“You’re projecting,” Erik tells him softly, watching him pull his cardigan on. The soft fabric tags stick out and up, and the fuzzy seams bulge. “And you’ve put your cardigan on inside-out.”

Charles freezes and Erik steps over to him, pulling the knitted fabric down off where it sits skewed on his shoulders, and Charles shrugs out of it the rest of the way and stares very hard at Erik’s chest as he pulls the sleeves through themselves.

“We were both drunk; it’s fine. If… If I had really objected to it all, I would have left. Without you. Alright?”

When Charles meets his eyes Emma knocks on the door, and Erik passes him his cardigan and turns around.

“Good morning, boys,” Emma says as she steps in. She’s wearing slim jeans and a white blouse, and a smug little tug at the corner of her mouth. “Charles, you look terrible. Your hair – I don’t even need to read your mind to know what happened last night.” Charles turns impossibly even redder and Erik coughs.

Charles keeps his eyes down and shuffles over to Emma, and she makes another terrible comment that they both ignore, and finally his blue eyes meet Erik and he says, “Thank you for taking care of me.”

“Anytime,” Erik finds himself replying. He means it.

The telepaths leave and Erik sighs into the very empty living room. He folds the throw into a neat line and lays it on the back of the lounge. Clears the empty bottles and containers from the table. Looks at Charles’ half eaten toast on the counter. He doesn’t like wasting food but he’s not going to eat it. They didn’t kiss.

He checks his phone, remembers the camera roll, puts the phone down, and rubs his face in exasperation. What does any of it matter anyway. He’s not going to see Charles again. Charles is twenty, doesn’t even have his shit together let alone his life. He’s probably at university and aspiring for great things. Erik is settled and fine and stable, even if he hides his anxiety and his anger with addictions. Work, work out, work more. No time for sleep, let alone sleeping with people.

*

In the end, Erik has nothing better to do and the strained and sore jog he went on didn’t seem to rattle the images of Charles from last night out of his mind, so he ends up going to work hardly two hours after Charles and Emma have left. He owns the restaurant. He can show up whenever he pleases. Yes, Summers, he has hobbies, but he has a business to maintain. At least, that is what he tells the kid.

His restaurant is completely vegetarian and kosher, with most meals vegan to boot. After living in this damn city with his own strict dietary requirements often represented in two options on every restaurant’s menu – usually one as a garden salad - he’d gotten pissed and decided to make his own restaurant. Erik is just that stubborn (citation Emma Frost, every day she’s known him). Of course, this meant his breakfast menu was often the butt of every joke in the critics columns – “breakfast without bacon? Ba-can’t believe anyone would be crazy enough to do this” – but soon every hipster was crawling out of their beds in the wee hours of ten am and now Erik spies tofu-scramble on the breakfast menus of most of the cafés he snoops at.

He’s got mock meat, too. The hours Erik had spent perusing the aisles of every grocery store he found, and combing the streets for small-chain natural food stores had not gone to waste, back at the start when he’d been running up menu ideas. The vegan-slash-kosher bacon tasted smoky and really not very pleasant, but he’s got it stocked up back and offered as a side for fifty cents with the tofu scramble and occasionally he’ll make a ‘quiche Loraine’ to sell out in the café bar of the restaurant if he’s got time. He usually does. Erik had even found vegan mock-chicken nuggets which sell exponentially well. Sustainable and satisfying.

It’s not until he feels a tickle against his mind that makes him look up from the twentieth rennet-free cheese omelette he’s made this morning that he feels something may be afoot, and quiet head waiter for the day-shift Janos Quested steps into the kitchen, nodding with a small smile on his lips. It’s not a ‘this is a façade to placate the staff because everything is going to shit and I honestly don’t know what to do about it’ small smile, and while his jaw is tight, Erik no longer grits his teeth. Much.

“A customer wishes for you to come out so they can thank the chef,” Quested says efficiently.

“We all work together to make the food, we can’t all come out.” Erik grumbles but he’s untying his apron and hooking it up, scrubbing his hands and nails in the basin (there’s a “when you move from bay to bay, wash your hands to keep germs away” placard above the sink; he doesn’t even remember who put it there. Probably fucking Logan). He glances at his reflection in the steel heat light, easing his expression into a polite mold that isn’t fake; it’s only forced because of the perpetual gravity in Erik’s face that wants to bow his brow and mouth. He doesn’t even feel stress anymore. But he can see it’s still definitely there.

The restaurant isn’t overcrowdedly, overwhelmingly busy, but it is filled with sleepy kids, both the dregs of last night and the wishing they were dead from last night types slumped in their seats and curing hangovers. Janos walks ahead of him, weaving between tables and customers, and the slight, uncontrolled tickle returns to the back of his mind.

“Emma,” Janos says with a small nod, stepping to the side to let Erik dominate the space. But all the space in the entire restaurant has been taken up by Emma sitting at the small table near the front window, with Charles by her side.

“Thank you, Janos,” she inclines her head and gives a knowing smile. “Erik! Charles was just saying how excellent the food was, so I thought I’d get Janos to call for you.”

Charles is staring at Erik, and Erik is staring at Emma, trying to catch himself from looking into his periphery; where Charles sits breathing through his nose and ignoring the way Erik’s sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, toned forearms rigid by his sides.

“Thank you, but I can’t take all the credit, all our _staff contribute-_ “

“Charles was telling me before how you couldn’t make it to breakfast with him, because you had to _work,_ ” Emma interrupts, lips sugary glossed and pleasant. She knows what she’s playing, what she’s doing. Erik won’t glare, because he really doesn’t want to offend or upset Charles. He would project very inconveniently and very loudly to her, make her wince a little, but Charles could pick it up too- and suddenly he’s very angry he’s being so protective. “So I thought, well, Erik and I _work_ in a _restaurant_ , with a lovely breakfast menu, and here we are.”

Emma and Charles are having a silent conversation – or yelling match judging Charles’ distress – and Erik realises just how much food there is on the table – stuffed and fried Portobello mushrooms and cherry tomatoes, cheese and avocado scrolls, a large pot of tea and three omelettes.

“I have to get back to work,” Erik interrupts quickly, before Emma can even pose the question and make it even harder for Erik to shut her down while still being polite. “And I ate at home,” he mutters. He won’t look at Charles.

“Just take your break now, it’s hardly even busy. Azazel says he’ll cover you. Unless he’s too busy distracting Janos.” Janos coughs at his side and excuses himself.

Erik sighs, and looks out the window, and sighs again and decides, alright, fine. Whatever. It’s all whatever. He knows what Emma is doing, but what can he do to stop it. “Okay. Just- let me take my jacket off.” He leaves them and walks out the back, to where bags are kept and uniform hooks are mounted, and shrugs out of his uniform. He’s wearing a light grey shirt underneath, and he sprays a little deodorant on. When he takes a little longer to return for Emma’s liking she sends him little mental prompt and he grits his teeth and grabs his phone in lieu of punching something and heads back out.

*

When Charles sees him sidle up to the table, Erik hears him whine quietly. _Your shirt is tight, isn’t it?_ Emma tells him. He ignores her, pulls out his chair by the screws embedded in the frame. Charles watches him and Erik gives him a small, hardly-there-at-all, smile.  So they’re doing this. He reminds himself that he’s sitting at a table with two telepaths, and tries not to look at Charles too much, because twelve hours ago the kid was rubbing against him and every time he looks at him he remembers that and Charles looks embarrassed and unsettled enough as it is. Erik doesn’t doubt that Charles would probably stab himself with his fork just to say, “oh, sorry Emma, it seems I need to go to the hospital, have a nice breakfast,” and get out of this.

Charles hears this apparently because he smiles down at his plate. He’s had a shower now, and is dressed in a brown shirt and a black jacket and he’s got a grey scarf, and his eyes flick up to meet Erik’s beneath the brown twists of his hair, and when Erik’s gaze slides over to Emma she’s wearing this smirk that fills her eyes and her lips, and Erik’s just going to- he’s just going to eat this food.  

Emma is chatting away, and Erik eases into his chair, pulling a mushroom onto his plate, cutting up his omelette, pouring himself some tea. He can feel Charles’ eyes on him, hot and wide and wild, but he just stares right at the dark stream filling his cup. “Erik,” Emma says slowly, like she’s talking to a kid. “You’re doing it again.”

He realises, then, that the omelette has been cut into thin slivers while his hands haven’t touched the cutlery, and the metal serving fork is halfway over to the mushroom plate, still in mid-air and locked in his control.

“Oh,” he says, quietly. “Sorry.” He isn’t really.

Charles’ eyes are alight as he watches. “Oh, no, please don’t be. Your mutation is very groovy.”

_Groovy,_ Erik thinks, but he’s smiling slightly.

Emma commandeers their conversations, mostly just talking about things from the TTMA to ease Charles up a bit. The two are close, but whether Charles told Emma what had happened last night or she’d snooped for herself, she’s not talking about the party. She does tease, however, and her last joke about Charles’ “refractory period” allowing him to lead an alcoholic lifestyle had left him coughing around a flaky, baked scroll. The spike of concern in Erik’s gut wasn’t fast enough to go unnoticed by the three.

After a little while, Emma gets up and announces she is going to check when she works next, wiping her hands on a serviette and smiling politely. Erik feels a brief shot of panic that isn’t his own, and when he looks at Charles the kid is staring at his plate sheepishly.

“I saw Ororo, before,” he begins quietly, and an image the girl with the white hair comes to Erik’s mind of its own accord. “I never read people’s minds unless they grant me permission, and I’m very good at ignoring people’s thoughts, but sometimes people think so _loudly_ and it’s impossible.” He’s pushing at the tomatoes on his plate and if it were anyone else Erik would be growing impatient. But it’s Charles. And he’s just. Different. “I saw Storm, and when she saw me today she thought very loudly about the last time she saw me at the party. With you. And I’m just,” Charles is looking anywhere but at Erik. “I’m really sorry I put myself all over you like that. Please don’t say that it’s okay because I was drunk, that isn’t an excuse. I knew about you, from what Emma had told me before the party, but we were strangers, and I-”

“Charles,” Erik interrupts quietly before the boy can hyperventilate. He’s trying not to smile, but the gentle tone still filters into his words. “I’m to blame, too. I was sober – mostly – and I meant what I said this morning. If I was uncomfortable you would have known. Emma will tell you, I’m very… loud, when I’m upset.” He taps his head and Charles smiles a little. “If you would like you can go through my memories to see what happened. You never did anything bad to me, so stop worrying. It’s not like we slept together.” Charles’ smile turns sheepish and his cheeks turn red, and Erik’s stomach turns over several thousand times.

“Thank you for the offer, but I think I might die of embarrassment if I did that.”

“What did I say.” Erik points his fork at Charles in mock-warning and sucks his teeth and smiles with his lips.

“That you and I both… I know. Thank you, though. For being that trusting when.. well. And thank you for everything last night, truly. I probably would still be lying in the grass at the hangar if you hadn’t revived me.”

“If I hadn’t kicked you on my way for a cigarette,” Erik corrects. Charles’ face twists.

“Did I… Did I really smoke last night?” he asks slowly in a whisper, like Raven’s hiding behind the menu at a nearby table and ready to pounce on him.

“Well, you sure did try.”

“Oh… Oh dear,” he mutters. Then he says, even quieter, “Please don’t tell Raven.”

Erik laughs; leans his elbow on the table, looks out the window into the street and chuckles. “I won’t. We don’t want her to think any worse of me than she does already. An older man bringing you into a Jewish, homosexual lifestyle; she probably think’s I’ll whisk you away to Romania – imagine if she knew I’d exposed you to even more toxic habits than your alcoholism.”

“I’m not-! I’m not an alcoholic,” Charles says adamantly, but he’s still grinning. “But Jewish homosexual? That sounds like a wild ride I am incredibly interested in taking. Raven would _definitely_ not approve. Of the homosexual aspect of it.” In a sharp second, Erik wonders if he got it all wrong, if Charles is actually straight and last night had just been- well it would make sense why he’s apologising so much. But he continues steadily, ignoring Erik’s brief turmoil. “You see I am not exclusively homosexual myself. So our male-male coupling could be tainted by my lack of male exclusivity. Raven’s a sucker for details and precision.”

Erik doesn’t know where this is going, what’s happening, but he’s smiling and he feels light and fresh and this is just like last night, all over again, but they’re not drunk and Erik thinks Charles might mean this.

“Well, consider it tainted by both of us, then.” Charles raises his eyebrows as he sips at his tea.

“Even better. I was worried, to be honest. Emma never told me if you… Well, if you were lenient in that regard.”

Erik can understand that. He’s not sure what he would say himself. Work-sexual isn’t a thing, but if it is it would sound a little concerning, and not something he’d want to tell a rather attractive young man. _Workaholic._ That’s what it is. He’d rather not say that, either. They’re both equally condemning.

“You know what intentions Emma had when she told you about me. Though Emma has told you a lot of other things about me, it seems,” he says with a smirk, and the embarrassed pinch in Charles brow comes back so Erik drops it.

“She told me you worked together, but not that you worked _here._ Kosher, vegan and vegetarian is a bit of a tight niche, wouldn’t it be?”

Now _this_ is a conversation Erik can have, he knows what he’s doing here. “You’d be surprised. It’s the only place here that caters to nearly all dietary requirements, so there’s high revenue. Most things on the menu are celiac, and I was going to start trialling different versions of the non-celiac dishes  with gluten free wheat and flour. We’ve ordered in the-”

“Oh my God, Erik, please stop.” Emma interrupts, standing behind him suddenly and squeezing his shoulders. “Please. I could hear you all the way from the kitchen. You’re going to kill Charles. He’s still hung over, remember?”

Charles laughs. He winks at Erik when Emma moves to pick her bag from the back of the chair, and thinks, _I didn’t mind, you could have talked all day if you wanted. It’s rather attractive when you talk about the things you like._

Erik tries to swallow. Everything is a little too dry and a little too warm.

“We should head off however, you have to get back to work and we have a meeting to get to, don’t we, Charles?” says Emma dryly, and Charles groans and covers his face.

“Please don’t do this,” he mutters between his fingers.

“I thought the association would be your favourite place; it certainly is Emma’s.” Erik stands from his chair and begins to stack the empty plates, raising a hand when Emma tries to help.

“It is, usually, but a room full of telepathic and telekinetic mutants? It would be impossible to hide my hangover. They’d get my headache.”

“Couldn’t Emma just… Will it away,” Erik says, waving his hand a little in the space near his head.

“I could,” Emma says cheerfully. “But I’m teaching him a lesson.”

“Loving you is a cruel torture, my dear,” sighs Charles wistfully, and he lets his head fall on Emma’s shoulder.

“There, there,” she replies, and pats his hair down. Erik watches on, neutral and cool. The plates are growing a little heavy on his arms, so he tells Emma that breakfast is on the house, tells her he’ll see her soon. Charles is watching him quietly, tucked against Emma’s side, and Erik smiles gently and tells him to take care, and not go on a weekend long bender, because Erik has to work tonight and can’t be bringing him cups of water at his beck and call. It makes Charles chuckle, and he touches Erik’s arm when Emma shrugs into her coat and leans up and kisses him on the cheek. Erik nearly drops the plates.

When Erik goes back to the kitchen, a hush unanimously falls over his cooks. They all watch him from the periphery, save for Azazel who is staring at him and grinning madly, tail flicking in the air. Janos doesn’t meet his eyes.

“Peak isn’t over yet,” Erik calls out.

“Yes, Chef,” is the choral reply.


	2. You Knew Who I Was Every Step I Ran to You

Erik doesn’t see or hear from Charles again for another week. He’s almost able to forget everything from the party, and last night was the first time he was able to dream without seeing a shock of brown hair tucked against his side. He’d never even gotten Charles' phone number, just a hundred blurred photos of him. He can’t bring himself to delete them. He’s looked up Charles Xavier on Facebook, found a young man striking a pose wearing a tweed suit and a pair of oversized, goofy bright plastic glasses, felt a pang in his gut and closed the tab. Because that was weird. Looking up people he barely knew online was weird. It w _as._

He could have asked Emma for his number, but Erik felt like that was a little like giving in. And he likes Charles, he really does. But he’s never really dated, never really had the time, and he’s nearly thirty. It’s a bit too late to learn how to have a relationship now.

Saturday nights can either be hectic and stressful – to the point where Armando is ready to throw a pot at anyone who takes too long making his orders – or completely dead, to the point where Erik can send nearly everyone home and run the kitchen with his powers alone. It isn’t one of those nights, however, and Armando has already told Summers something very awful in riling, rage-filled Spanish, and Janos had nearly dropped his trays in shock.

Erik sends Armando on a quick rest pause, and when he comes back, he’s looking calmer and ready to deal with the throng of customers. Alex apologises for being slow with his meals, and Armando says sorry for saying whatever it was that he had said. All is well again. Who needs relationship counselling when you can work in Erik Lehnsherr’s kitchen. Although, no one really knows if Summers and Muñoz are exclusive. Except for Emma.

Around ten, when kitchen closes, Erik tells Azazel to take over and he steps out into the alley behind the restaurant, air cool and sharp against his arms. He sits on the small step down into the street, and bites down on a cigarette. It nearly falls down onto the stone ground when he flicks his phone on and sees fifteen missed calls from an unknown number, and twenty texts. The last one was five minutes ago, just before he shrugged out of his double-breasted chef’s jacket and plucked his smokes and his phone from his bag.

He doesn’t get a chance to open the messages because the unknown caller is ringing again, draining his battery and filling his caller ID. He could leave it and just reply to the person via text, but curiosity – and, he’ll admit, a small twinge of anxiety – get the better of him, and he slides the call open.

“Hello, Erik speaking,” he says, trepidation hanging heavy on his words, and there’s a sigh of relief on the other side, and then there is a very agitated voice filling his ear.

“Erik, it’s Raven.” Erik stares at the wall across the street, and it takes a moment for it all to click. Raven, Charles’ sister, shapeshifter, moody.

“Oh, sorry. Hi.” He knows he sounds stunted but… He really hadn’t been expecting this. “How… How are you?”

  
“Good, I’m fine.” She’s impatient and clipped, and borderline rude. But Erik’s still curious about what this is all for. He doesn’t have to wait long. “Have you seen Charles? Do you know where he is?”

There’s a spike in Erik’s gut, and he clutches his phone just a little bit tighter, pinches the cigarette filter til it frays. “No, why? What’s happened?”

Raven sighs again, “He’s not answering my calls, or my messages. He sent me something about being extremely distressed but that’s it, and I can’t find him.”

“I’m sure he’ll turn up. He’s a telepath, he can protect himself. Where was he last seen?”

“He was out with his friend, but that was at midday, after the meeting or something.”

“Emma might be able to find him?”

“Yeah, she’s tried, but he’s probably blocking her out because she can’t trace him.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.” They’re silent for a moment, then Raven continues, “Right, well I’m gonna call some of his other friends to see if they know where he is. Thanks, Erik.”

“Good luck. Sorry, just quickly though, how did you get this number?”

“Emma gave it to me. Bye.” Then the line is dead.

Azazel pokes his head out the back door and tells him they’re almost done with close, Armando has counted his register and Erik just needs to put it all in the computer to process. “I know how to do my damn job,” he snaps, but he grins as well, clapping Azazel on the back after he puts his cigarette back in the carton and steps inside. He’s not too worried about Charles, he _is_ a telepath and he _can_ take care of himself. But there’s still. Something. Irking him just so.

They manage to get out by 11:30, and Erik gives this kid named Kurt a lift home. He’s new, and works at the restaurant part-time after school on dish duty but Alex shows him how to cook the basics when he’s cleaned up. He’s German, too, and he helps keep Erik’s memory sharp with little chats in their native tongue. When Erik finally pulls into the parking lot of his apartment complex it’s nearly midnight, and he trudges to the elevator in his work boots. He’d started at seven this morning, and he still has his end of week reports to write up and file away. Azazel is his sous-chef, and is at the restaurant almost as much as he is. He can run shift for a while so Erik can write-

His thoughts are cut off when the elevator opens and he sees Charles sitting by his door, slumped over and asleep.

His steps become quicker and his voice takes an edge of panic when he calls out to Charles for the second time, and then kid startles a little, and Erik’s mind feels heavy for a few moments before Charles retracts, conscious and alert and scrambling to get to his feet.

“Erik, hi, I- hi.” He’s flustered and looking around, and he grips Erik’s forearm as his head spins. The locks in the door click open by themselves and Erik leads him into the living room, lights flickering on, but he’s still got his hands supporting the kid.

“Raven’s looking for you; does she know you’re here?”

“Not yet, my phone went flat.”

“Alright, sit down and I’ll let her know. Do you want anything? Tea or water?”

“Tea, please,” Charles replies. “I can make it.” He goes to get up from the couch, but Erik weighs his belt buckle and he can hardly shift.

“Sit down, Charles, you’re nearly hysterical and you’re half asleep. Have you taken anything? Do I need to call an emergency line?” He’s got his back turned, but Erik can feel the shaking of the metal on Charles’ shoes as he bounces his knee, can feel the trembling in his watch as he combs a shaky hand through his hair. Erik’s trying to keep a level head, trying to keep calm and focused. There’s no good in bombarding him with a slew of questions, especially pointless ones, like how did he even manage to get into the lobby in the first place.

“I convinced someone to let me in,” Charles mutters. Right. Of course he did. “I don’t need you to call anyone, I haven’t taken any drugs and I’m not drunk. _God,_ I’m never going to drink again in my life…”

“Just take your time,” Erik tells him as the electric kettle flicks off. “Ceylon, mint, green, earl…?”

“Ceylon, please. No sugar, just milk, thank you.”

“Use my mobile to message Raven. It’s in the bag on the counter. Then you go right back to the couch, alright?” The phone floats out of the bag towards Charles anyway, and he stumbles up to grasp it.

“Couch,” Erik reminds him as he stands there fiddling with the phone, and Charles asks for his passcode before falling into the cushions.

*

Raven had, of course, called the moment that Charles had sent off a message – _Raven, it’s Charles, my phone is flat, I’m at Erik’s and I’m okay x_ – and it had taken Charles ten minutes to convince her that all was well. In those ten minutes, Erik learnt just how many times he could count the books on his shelf, count the number of tofu burgers he’d made tonight, try and count how many cigarettes he’d smoked in the past month before he realised that he could probably count the number of metal objects in the city and he wouldn’t feel any calmer.

He sits down on the other end of the couch, and places their cups of tea on the coffee table. Steeping his fingers, he watches the steam swirl into the air and listens to Charles sigh for the umpteenth time before telling Raven that he really has to go, he’s sorry, he loves her he loves her he loves her, and then he hangs up abruptly and places the phone on the coffee table. The screen lights up but Erik flicks it onto silent and turns it face down with a wave of his fingers.

“So,” he begins after a moment. “What’s going on?”

Charles cringes, picks up his tea, puts it back down, folds his hands, stalls just a few seconds longer, before sighing. “Erik, you have to know that I am so sorry and I really didn’t want to drag you into this mess.”

Immediately Erik thinks of gangs, mobs, Charles owing drug tainted money to drug tainted people and taking that money from him, organs, black markets, debts-

“No, god, stop, no I’m not-”

“Please, Charles, I’m tired. Don’t make me look any older.”

Charles laughs at that, but it’s broken and borderline hysterical. “Alright,” he says after a moment. “Okay, I don’t know how to say this so I’m just, going to say it, alright?” Erik’s eyes are dead and he is tired and he wants to sleep. Charles’ dramatics are wasted on him. “You have to pretend to be my boyfriend.”

At this point in the night it takes Erik a little while to process and prioritise his thoughts, and so, he nods, and simply asks, “I have to?”

“Please.” Charles whispers.

“Is someone going to die if I don’t?” Erik’s eyebrows are raised. He sips his tea. Peppermint. Good for the digestive system.

“I will.”

“You will die? If I don’t pretend to be your boyfriend?”

Charles whines, covers his red face and red mouth.

“I need a little more information, Charles,” Erik says. He’s amused if anything. Or he’s just that overtired.

“The TTMA is having a lunch, where we’re supposed to bring a friend and mingle. It’s so that non-telepathic and telekinetic mutants, and humans, can familiarise themselves with our mutation, and try to end the stigma against telepaths. Also to just, broaden the mutant horizon.”

“And you need me to be your plus one? Why can’t you take Raven or one of your friends?” He has a lot – Erik’s met most of them albeit they were drunk and probably don’t remember him. Charles whines again.

“That’s the thing- they _do_ remember you. Jean remembered you from the party, and she went and told everyone that I had a secret… boyfriend. Person. And now they all expect you to come.”

Erik nods again. Alright. No organs, no black-markets. This could be a whole lot worse, really.

“You could say I’m working.” No doubt he will be.

“They’d probably just go to the restaurant to scope you out. Plus I-” Charles stares at his tea, and waits a long moment before continuing. “I’ll be honest with you, Erik. I flirt with people a lot.”

Something fills Erik’s gut and it is cold and hollow and he grits his jaw and then he grits it harder because he has no reason to be jealous. None at all.  

Charles starts up again quickly, his tone placating. “That’s all it was though, flirting, but my friends seem to think I go further than that, I don’t like commitment and that I’m – well, a bit…”

“A bit of a floozy.”

“Right. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. But, if you don’t come with me tomorrow they’re going to think that-”

“I was just your flavour of the week. Right.”

Charles thumbs the side of his mug when he picks it back up. He worries his lip, chewed even redder between grinding teeth. “It’s not that I care what people say about me; but it’s hard, when you hear people’s thoughts, the unconscious ones they make up quickly before shutting them away. I never read into people without their permission, but sometimes I just… hear them. Hear the quips. Even from Raven, sometimes. She’ll call me things. I just- I just want to prove them wrong, I guess. I love my friends, dearly, but sometimes they can be terribly judgemental and terribly mean.”

“I understand,” says Erik gently. “I don’t mean to be callous, but how is this going to affect me? If we don’t go through with this?”

The slump in Charles’ shoulders makes him feel guiltier than he would wish to be, so he folds up those feelings and tucks them away to be forgotten.

“It’s not going to affect you,” he says quietly, conceding with a sigh. “You’ve got no reason to do this for me, and you’re already busy as it is.”

They lapse into silence for a moment, and before Erik can open his mouth Charles continues quickly, “I’ll reimburse you, if you do help me out. I’ll promote the restaurant at my uni and I’ll tell everyone at the meeting about it.”

“You don’t have to pay me to be your boyfriend, like you’re my sugar daddy or something. Shit,” Erik mutters. Then he breathes slowly, looks at the clock – its 12:30 – and says, after a very long time “Alright. I’ll do it.”

The wave of second-hand relief that smacks into him nearly makes him drop his tea, and Charles laughs his clear laugh and apologises, and thanks him. Many times.

Erik asks, after a few moments, “When’s the lunch?”

“It’s tomorrow.”

“…Right.”

“Yeah.”

“Tomorrow Sunday? Like today tomorrow?”

“Yes.”

“Right. Okay. And you didn’t want to ask me about this sooner?”

“I’m sorry,” Charles whispers.

What has he done. What has he gotten himself into.

*

Even though it’s late, Charles insists on driving back to his own apartment, despite Erik telling him he can just sleep on the couch again. Erik saves Charles’ number in his phone (and by doing so discovers that half the missed calls he had are from both Raven _and_ Charles) and walks with him down the lobby. The lunch starts at eleven, at the Mutant Information Centre in one of the function rooms a little past the rec room that the TTMA holds their weekly meetings in. Charles will come over at ten thirty and they’ll run over some back story and Charles will drive him to the lunch. When Erik gets into bed that night, bewildered and really not thinking straight, he has a pending Facebook friend request from a young man in a brown, tweed suit and funky bright yellow glasses.

He doesn’t even bother texting Emma out of anger. If he ignores her long enough she might even feel guilty for putting Charles and Erik in this situation – and it _is_ her fault for making Erik go to that party, and she _would_ have known days ago what Charles and Erik were going to have to do, probably even last Saturday, when they had breakfast at the restaurant and then went to the MIC. Soon, the craziness of it all wears off and Erik lays in bed wondering just _what_ he’s agreed to, because the doesn’t really know what to do in a relationship, even in a fake one. It’s been nearly seven years since he went on a date. She’d found him too cold. Too impassive. Too impervious.

Erik finally falls asleep around three, but he’s up again an hour later and he writes out the reports (he really should get someone to do this, with his schedule), works out the wastage and the losses and divides the pay for his employees. “The more business we get, the better I pay you, so make excellent food and you’ll also be making excellent cheques,” he tells them. He pays them well, better than most of the restaurants he had worked in prior ever paid him. Erik knows they don’t just work the long and hard hours just for the good pay, no matter how many times Logan says he does. He doesn’t need Emma to tell him that they silently, unanimously agree they’re like a family. They _are_ a family.

Erik doesn’t care who’s been to juvie, or jail, or is illegally in the country, or if one unnamed mutant is growing weed in their spare time (it’s _Logan_ , it’s always fucking _Logan_ ). They don’t even have to be a fantastic cook; he’ll either teach them himself or find another job for them. They just have to care about the work. And it is a lot of work. Erik supposes it’s a good thing that Janos and Azazel work together otherwise they would have broken up years ago, with their stupidly longs shifts. He doesn’t even know what’s happening between Muñoz and Summers. Everyone thought they hated each other, until Marie forgot her phone one night and walked back into the kitchen after close to find Alex sprawled on his back over his own station and a very riled Armando on top of him, biting his frustration into the skin of the kid’s neck.

It’s been months but Marie still can’t look either one of them in the eye. She never would have told, she’s a loyal young woman. She just thinks too loudly. Alex swears that if anyone tells his kid brother who will be taking up some shifts next week he’s going to blow the fucking restaurant up.

Erik messages Azazel to tell him the paperwork is all done, and that he probably won’t be able to come in today. At six, at a reasonable time, Azazel replies in affirmation and Erik decides to go for a jog, then have a shower, then try to build himself up for whatever is going to happen today. It’ll be just like the party, probably, with Charles hanging off his arm and Charles introducing him to people. He can play the stoic and impassive and intimidating partner. It really isn’t much of an act.

Then he realises that they’re going to be trying to lie to a room full of telepaths and he counts to ten, tells himself it’s for the restaurant, all for the restaurant, if everyone thinks Charles likes to sleep around that’s his own fault. They’re going to think Charles is desperate if they find out the truth. Erik thinks that’s worse than being called a slut, and doesn’t know if it’s worth the gamble.

Erik owns maybe four separate outfits, and it’s a tough call to choose between the turtleneck and coat combination or the polo-shirt and jacket. He doesn’t want to look even more like Charles’ father, though, so he forgoes the polo and pulls on his sweater over a singlet. It’s only early autumn, but he shouldn’t be too hot. Provided Charles doesn’t rub up against him too much throughout the day.

He’s got a message from Emma, which he ignores, and a message form Charles, asking if he can come over a bit earlier, which he agrees to. And then he’s got over an hour to kill, which he fills with housework and glancing at his phone, the knowledge of the friend request he’d accepted last night hanging over him, until he sits on the couch and decides fuck it, he’s going to look at Charles’ profile, and he justifies it as study. All he knows about Charles is that he is telepathic and flirty and apparently drinks in concerning amounts. He’s twenty. He’s _twenty_ …

Like Erik, Charles doesn’t keep much information on his profile, mostly pictures he’s tagged in with friends filling his timeline. His birthday is the sixth of March. He’s at the city’s university. He doesn’t have a job. Erik twists his mouth at that. He’d become financially independent when he was fifteen. He doesn’t judge people, but sometimes he forgets that not everyone has the work ethic he has, and it makes him a little broody.

At ten Erik can feel the heaviness of Charles’ presence in his mind before Charles can even buzz through the intercom, and he lets him in when he feels Charles’ watch just by the lobby doors, before he can press the button. When Erik opens the door to his apartment, Charles is standing there holding a cardboard tray and two cups of coffee, hair a little ruffled from the wind outside.

“Hi. Come in.” He steps to the side to let Charles pass, and it feels a little awkward. Stunted. He knew it would be awkward, but he still doesn’t like it. Charles seems to ignore whatever unease Erik has, and thrusts the coffee tray into his hands while he pulls off his boots.

“Morning, I hope you like Chai. I wasn’t sure, since you didn’t offer coffee last night.” He places one hand on Erik’s shoulder for balance. Erik’s glad they’re not beating around the bush with this. There’s no need for formality between two people who are sticking together to survive something. This isn’t any different.

“Because I didn’t think you needed coffee last night, you were so worked up,” Erik says, smiling a little, and Charles harrumphs in good will.

“Well, anyway.” Without his boots, Charles is another inch shorter than Erik than he already was, and he has to look up to meet Erik’s eyes. Then he takes the tray back, walks into the kitchenette and places the lattes on the counter. Erik follows him dumbly, as if this is Charles’ home and not his own. Charles carries on as he folds the tray down flat and tucks it to the side of Erik’s bin, where the rest of his cardboard recycling is. Erik sits on a barstool and takes one of the paper cups. “Have you thought about our ‘getting together’ story? Jean has told everyone about you already, and they are all asking how we met already. I’ve been stalling, saying they’ll find out soon enough, but. We could say we met at a party... It’s not a lie, so…”

“What about us meeting through Emma? Then if people doubt whether or not I’m long-term or just a one night stand you keep around they’ll have her to confirm that we’re dating.” Erik can hardly believe how naturally he’s able to say this. How he can say it without feeling awkward. But there is no need for formality or loitering around the issue. This is just like surviving.

“Yes, that’ll work. And we can say we met when Emma and I went for breakfast at the restaurant you both work at. Then we’ll have that Latino waiter to back us up, and your other employees. Plus, this is sort of Emma’s fault, not just my own. Us roping her into this can be a sort of… pay back.”

“It feels like we’ve committed a murder and we’re scrounging for alibis,” Erik mutters. Charles comes and sits on the seat next to him. “But I’m glad you agree on Emma’s involvement – she’s probably told everyone your friend Jean hasn’t told, going by how willingly she’s handing out my phone number.” Charles flushes a little at that, and Erik raises an eyebrow and sips on his chai latte in silence. Very sweet, lots of cinnamon and vanilla. But it’s good.

“I don’t… I don’t want to make you uncomfortable, but we’ll probably have to- hold hands, and be affectionate with one another. Are you okay with touching?”

“Yes,” Erik says truthfully. The amount of accidental groping and bumping and touching from the kitchen at work is nothing compared to holding hands. He doesn’t remember how many times Logan’s touched his dick when he’s gone to grab something from falling off the bay and ended up catching something else instead.

“Good, okay, because some of the other mutants from the party will be at the lunch today, and they’d have seen how close to you I was at the party, so… so it’ll be weird if we’re not just as close now. Is.. is that still okay?”

Erik remembers the way Charles had wound around his arm, tight and hot against him; remembers the way his fingers traced along his forearm, down down down, until their fingers knotted together and Charles leant his face into Erik’s chest and smiled and breathed him in; remembers how his own hands had chased Charles’ spine, lower lower lower. “Yes,” he repeats, voice surprisingly stable. Charles makes a noise and flushes. Erik reminds himself not to think too loudly or too vividly from now on.

Charles carries on, and they both ignore Erik’s memories. “Okay, okay, good. You don’t have to worry about being affectionate, if you don’t want. I already said you were sort of stoic, so they’ll probably expect me to be all over you, but not really vice versa. If you don’t feel comfortable, then- how good are you at projecting?”

“Emma and I project often, but she’s the only one who can pick up on it, unless there are other telepaths around me I don’t know about. I don’t know how well I’d do trying to talk to just you in a room of telepaths who would be able to pick up on it, however.”

“Right, yeah, that makes sense. And the others might accidentally pick up on me projecting to you, too.” Charles worries his lip and looks down at the marble countertop. “Well, if you do ever feel uncomfortable, squeeze my arm and I’ll try to give you some space. And don’t worry about the others reading your mind; we all sign a contract when we join the TTMA that says that we won’t go purposefully into the minds of others without their prior consent. We’re all very good at blocking people’s thoughts out. Has Emma taught you any shielding techniques?”

“No,” Erik admits.

“Alright, that’s okay. I can block your mind for you, just so they don’t pry. They do mean well, but for us, our mutation is all we know, it’s perfectly normal to read people’s minds. It’s a habit we’re trying to conquer. However, try not to think. I know that’ll be hard, but if you only count the metal things in the building when you feel unsettled, and someone notices, they’ll just think it’s a tic with your mutation.”

So Charles knows. Erik should feel upset or angry, but he doesn’t. He stares at the cinnamon-stained lid on the cup, mulling over the question he wants to ask with uncharacteristic sheepishness. Then he thinks, fuck it, Charles has probably heard his thoughts already.

“Are they- do they expect us to kiss in front of them?” Erik eventually asks. Charles was already frazzled when he arrived, was off the rails last night, and nothing seems to have really changed in that regard right now. He frowns at his cup for a moment, twisting his lips, but he meets Erik’s gaze, none the less, however not for long.

“We shouldn’t have to go that far; I can try and talk our way out of that situation if it arose. But I don’t expect you to kiss me.” Erik’s not sure if he’s disappointed or relieved.

By the time they’ve finished their drinks and run over their backstories and what Erik is comfortable doing, it’s ten forty-five and Charles gets up to pull his boots on. Erik shrugs into his brown jacket and flicks off the lights. He pats himself down - phone, keys, wallet, cigarettes – and steps out into the hallway with Charles behind him.

Charles’ car, when they get to it, is, with all respect, a shitbox, and Charles laughs before Erik can shut the thought down, walking to the passenger side of the yellow, rusty, two-door monstrosity to key-open Erik’s door.

“No central locking? I could fix that for you?” Erik says beseechingly, pulling his seat belt on and glancing forlornly at the interior of the vehicle, sliding his seat back in attempt to try and accommodate his long legs. The spring clicks but it doesn’t work. The car’s not messy, but there’s a few faded and crumpled receipts and a bit of dried grass on the floor mat, an auxiliary cord dangling near the gear stick and about ten different smelly things hanging from the rear-vision mirror. “Please love yourself, Charles; please let me fix your car.”

“Shut up,” Charles laughs as he bats his arm, and the car startles to life with a shudder and a high pitched whine that lasts a few seconds. There’s a stack of folders and books sitting on the back seat, and Erik can feel probably three-hundred dollars in coins floating around on the floor, in the boot, fallen down in small cracks and never to be seen again.

“You don’t have to suffer like this, Charles.”

“Would you- would you stop that? Please!” Charles says in exasperation, but his grin is wild and he narrows his eyes at Erik between checking over his shoulder and in his mirrors before reversing. “The car moves, alright? The car works. It is very cheap to fill up, and very small so it is easy to drive. That’s all I want in a car, okay.”

“The car is only moving because I am guiding it.”

“You’re never going to let me drive this car again, are you? Now that you’re so convinced it is a terrible car?”

“What sort of partner would I be if I allowed my lover to put themselves in this kind of danger, every day? If I allowed them to be so careless with their own life?”

Charles shakes his head and sets off down the main street towards the Mutant Information Centre.

“Please let me at least fix it at some point, preferably today after the meeting. It’ll only take me a second. I can _feel_ where the gears have been ground down- do you even know how to drive stick, Charles? Do you know how frustrating that is? Knowing I can fix it in an instant?”

“ _Alright!_ ” Charles says wildly. “You can fix my car, and yes, I can drive manual. Why didn’t you become a mechanic if you are so invested in the health and safety of everyone who drives, in your so eloquent opinion, _‘a shit-box’_?” The image of himself in jeans and a tight black singlet is put into his own mind, by Charles. He’s got grease on his face and he’s rubbing a wrench with a dirty rag, cigarette hanging on his lip, eyes as cool as the steel frame of the automobile in the shed behind him. The image vanishes as quickly as it had come, and Erik thinks quietly that Charles might not have meant to project that.

“Too easy,” Erik says casually, ignoring the flush on Charles’ cheeks. “There isn’t a challenge in it for me.”

“So you like a challenge, Mr Lehnsherr?” The elated wildness is gone from Charles’ voice now. “Today will be interesting.”

*

Erik has only been to the MIC twice in his life – the first to get his Mutant Business Owner’s Permit, and the second to pick up Emma when she was raging drunk after a party held by the Telepathic and Telekinetic Mutants Association. The centre is a building with eight floors, and is the city’s mutant haven. Mutant social workers, doctors, and mental health experts are accessible seven days a week free for mutants under twenty-five, while only incurring a small fee for those over. The centre, while receiving some government funding, supports itself with charities and fundraisers every week, as well as hefty anonymous donations. There are a few bands that play at gigs to represent the centre. Erik’s mother had wanted him to join one when he was a teenager, but he can only really play piano and unfortunately, most of his classmates were very hung up on rock the many years ago that he was a spirited, give-it-a-go adolescent, and his call to fame was ended by the demand for bassists and electric guitarists. He glances at Charles has he parks his car, opening his door a crack to check he’s in the lines. He’s so _young._

Charles is giving him the run down on the building as they step out of the car, (“You have to hold the handle up when you shut the door to lock it, Erik,” Charles is telling him, and Erik is staring at him incredulously) telling him about each floor, and Erik knows Charles is doing it to try and keep him calm, tell him all about the place he’s going to be stuck in, tell him where the exits are.

“…There’s a gym on the fourth floor that’s open 24/7, but you have to have a membership card. You like to jog, right? So you might like-”

Erik barks out a nervous laugh and Charles, startled, stares at him. “I just realised. I really don’t even know anything about you. What _you_ like to do.” The electric doors part as they step into the climate controlled lobby.

Charles carries on calmly. “I’m at university, studying biology. Specifically genetics. I’m going for a bachelor in biophysics. The people at the association hate when I start talking about my studies, so they’re not going to bring it up. If they do they know I won’t shut up for hours,” Charles fills in quickly. “As for what I like to do, well... I like reading and chess.”

Erik’s laughing again and rubbing his face and fuck, doesn’t even really know why he’s agreeing to this. The restaurant is fine. They have good business already. They go over their sales quota nearly every week. “Genetics. I’m a chef. You’re worried about what they’ll think about you, they’re going to be whispering to themselves about how you’re out of my league.”

Charles frowns at that and stops walking to look up at him. “You own a lucrative business, Erik, one that you built from the ground up. You’re already very accomplished.”

“I am so much older than you. Your own sister looked at me like I was a pervert, these people-”

“-are just going to be glad that I’m finally sticking down to one person, since they think I’m such a slut.”

Erik had hardly noticed that they’d made their way to the second floor already, and down a corridor. Charles has him back against a wall, giving him space but keeping his eyes hard on him.

“It’s not going to work,” Erik finally mutters, when he feels the black inky tendrils of anxiety receding,  no longer squeezing his gut and slicking their way up his throat. “I can’t lie to a room full of telepaths.”

Charles grins. “But I can. I’m the strongest one. Emma can turn her mind into a diamond, but I could convince everyone in that room that we are so in love they’ll believe we’re getting married next week and have five children and a ranch.”

“Can’t you just, do that, then?”

“We’re telepaths,” Charles says wryly, with an apologetic smile. “We know when our mind is being tampered with. We’ll just have to convince them ourselves.”

“Right. Okay.”

“It’ll be alright, I’m making them out to be sharks when they’re more like coral, okay? Emma and Jean and who else knows have all just riled them up. Remember when Emma had that boyfriend, Sebastian or something? They’d gone nuts about her and wouldn’t leave her alone. We’re like a weird family. The same as you and your restaurant.”

Erik thinks about how he can control the restaurant, he can always control what is happening around him in the places he chooses to be in. But, he does remember Sebastian. He’d tried to tell him how to run his business. He’d punched him when Emma finally discovered he’d been cheating on her, and then Emma punched him twice as hard, fist clear and sparkling and uppercut sharp as a diamond. Charles smiles and rubs his arm soothingly. The touch feels so natural Erik hardly notices it.

“Think in German,” Charles tells him. “That way, even if you can’t control who looks into your head, and my blocking slips for some reason, you can control what they understand. No one speaks German that I’m aware of.”

Erik doesn’t even need to ask Charles how he knew that he speaks German. Emma. Charles grins and looks away sheepishly. “I don’t speak German either, and even though I ignore the thoughts I hear most the time, like you’d ignore people talking as they passed you on the street, sometimes I overhear things.”

When they set back off down towards the dining-slash-function room (the rec room is too small for this sort of thing) Charles twines his arm with Erik’s, and Erik surprises him by sliding their hands and fingers together and rubbing his thumb over the knuckles of Charles’ own. This is nice, Erik thinks in German. It’s fake, there’s no commitment, no real feelings, and Erik gets the physical intimacy of another human that sometimes he really, really craves. He’s not going to disappoint someone for being impervious. He can’t break anyone’s heart. This is ideal. Charles has warm, small hands.

There’s a heaviness in Erik’s mind that feels like he’s drunk, sans the ambiguity and obscurity that comes from inebriation. He nearly trips over Charles’ feet when it settles, and Charles squeezes his hand and says, “Sorry. Your mind should be impenetrable now.” Erik grumbles.

 The function room has been done up with some streamers, and two long tables have been set up on the carpeted area, with plates and cutlery lining the sides. Another smaller table is set up against the back wall, next to where the doors are and where Erik and Charles stand, and Erik supposes that that’s where the food will be. There’s a doorway to a kitchen nook on his left side, and Erik itches to get in a familiar space. It’s not his kitchen but it doesn’t matter. There’s a large, linoleum-floored clearing opposite them, under the stage, and Erik remembers the last time they danced – Charles swaying and Charles holding him and Charles telling him to keep going, keep going lower, keep touching him further. Charles presses another _sorry_ into his mind, and when Erik looks down Charles is blushing. German, Erik reminds himself. German.

“What are you and your beau thinking about, Charles Xavier? This is a family friendly event; wipe that blush from your face this instant.” The woman’s words are commanding and demanding of respect, but Erik looks to his right and sees a short, plump woman standing with open arms and smile on her face.

“Tabitha!” Charles calls, and he squeezes Erik’s hand before sliding his fingers out of Erik’s grip and crossing the three paces to his friend. They hug tightly, and the woman – Tabitha – eyes Erik subtly over the kid’s shoulder. “It’s good to see you here, I missed you yesterday.”

“And you may as well have missed me last Saturday too, with how hung over and dead to the world you were.” Tabitha pulls back, and now she looks at Erik fully, and Charles stands at her side, holding onto her arm. “So this is the illustrious gentleman who has swept our Xavier away?”

Charles grins and flushes and turns into Tabitha’s side. He is a very good actor. “Yes, though don’t say it like that or you’ll make Raven worry even more. This is Erik Lehnsherr, he’s metallokinetic.” Erik sticks his hand out on cue, and smiles gently.

“A pleasure to meet you,” Erik says, and Tabitha makes an appreciative sound and looks to Charles with wide eyes as she lets Erik take her hand.

“ _And_ he has an accent. I am very jealous. Tabitha Small. I’m telekinetic, but I’m limited to glass and crystallised objects.”

Erik hums. “Have you been able to stretch to control sand or rocks?”

Tabitha raises her eyebrows in surprise. “I have been trying, with the help of your darling here, but alas, the minerals have to be in their final form for me to make them budge.” Before Erik can reply, and unknowingly and accidentally start a conversation about the importance of the powers of crystals and the magic they hold – a conversation that Charles has had three times already and has decided it’s three times too many – Charles slides back over to Erik, and Erik puts a hand up to his back, almost instinctual, and Tabitha smiles and says she’ll see them soon, waddling over to the table and placing thirty or so glasses near the plates with her powers.

Charles stands in his toes, mouth at Erik’s neck, and whispers, “Tabitha is a sweetheart and I love her to bits, but if you bring up crystals and auras she will talk to you about it until you are dead.”

“A bit like you and your biophysics?” Erik mutters back, and Charles snorts and presses his forehead to his collar, and Erik reminds himself, this is just an act, just two people helping each other out, and at the end of it they might even be friends. Erik isn’t going to have to show up next week, so Charles can just tell everyone they broke up. Erik wasn’t comfortable with his telepathy, Erik was an asshole who broke the heart of the baby of the group.

This is just an act. Just an act.

*

An hour later, all the patrons seem to be accounted for and Erik would know because every single person has wanted to know about Charles’ mysterious, scary, tall, German, hot, metallokinetic, chef, intimidating lover, and what he is doing with a creampuff like Charles Xavier. Even the plus ones of the members of the TTMA have all had words with him. It seems that everyone knows Charles Xavier, knows the ‘reputation’ he drags around with him, and Erik can finally start to see why Charles had wanted him to do this. A lot of people are surprised, and try to keep their smiles pursed and the judgement out of their eyes. Some of the kids Erik recognises from the party the week before, and they seem a little gobsmacked to learn that Erik had stayed, holding Charles tight against his side and glaring at anyone who looked the wrong way.

He doesn’t mean to be so protective, but Charles doesn’t seem to mind. Not at all.

Of the mutants from the party, the one Erik remembers profoundly is the girl with flaming red hair. It’s pulled into a messy bun today, however, but she still trots over to Charles when she spies him, and Charles let’s go of Erik’s hand – with another squeeze – to wrap the girl in his arms and kiss her repeatedly on the cheeks.

“Jean Grey, my one true love,” Charles laughs, holding her tightly

“Don’t say that too loudly, Erik might get jealous,” The girl says with a serious tone in her voice, but she winks at Erik and pats her friend on the back. So this is Jean. If anything, she’s the illustrious one.

“What is there to be jealous of?” says a boy who swaggers over to them, red visor covering his eyes. Jean slaps him on the shoulder and the boy grins, sharp and lopsided.

“If you don’t love your girlfriend,” Charles tells the newcomer, still gripping onto Jean’s arm. “I will.”

“If you have enough love left in your heart, Jeanie’s been telling me how besotted you are already. It might be too late for the rest of us. Charles Xavier’s never ending love, taken all for himself by a mister…?”

“Erik Lehnsherr,” Erik says, not harshly, but not as easy as he’s been talking to everyone else so far. This kid can only be just over half his age but he’s sort of acting like the adult and it’s sort of pissing Erik off.

Charles must be able to feel Erik’s uneasiness, so he slots in next to him again, and Jean takes her boyfriend’s hand. “Erik, this is Scott Summers,” Charles says, and then it all makes sense. It all makes so much fucking sense. The swagger. The cockiness.

“Summers? Are you related to Alex Summers by chance?” Erik asks, and he can’t help his mouth splitting into a grin.

“Yeah? He’s my brother?”

 _You’re scaring them,_ Charles presses gently, when Erik doesn’t stop his grinning and Scott starts to look at Jean with what Erik assumes is unease. The frown pulling his lips down is the only indicator that Erik can pick up on.

“Sorry, I know Alex, is all.”

Before Scott can ask how this scary German knows his big brother, Charles continues, “And this is Jean, the lamb who’s told everyone about us.”

“It’s big news, Charles Xavier settling for _one_ person _per week_ ,” says Scott with a laugh. Charles laughs, but Erik can feel him clutching into the back of hi _s_ sweater, and Erik slips a hand under the hem of Charles’ cardigan and rubs his fingers in tight circles at the bottom of his spine, trying to soothe him. Right. He can definitely understand how frustrating it must be for Charles to have to have gone through this for who knows how long. He’s only been here for an hour and he’s frustrated.

There’s a challenging tone to Charles’ words, even though he speaks evenly, and poignantly clear. “Well call the tabloids and hold on to your boots because Erik and I have been together for a month now.”

Erik simply smiles. German. That was a massive lie, Charles. German. A month. We didn’t agree on a month. We didn’t agree on a time. _German_. He doesn’t know what to say, so he simply smiles and tries not to think. He trusts Charles. If they get found out, Scott will know and Scott will bring it to the restaurant when he brings his snot-nosed self to the restaurant for his shifts the coming week. Erik’s staff won’t be judgemental, won’t care what he does, but if, for a second, they think that a boy named Charles Xavier whom they don’t know gets around on the ill-word of Alex’s shitty brother, he’ll fire them.

The spike of anger surprises himself when it passes a second later; had surprised Jean from the way she is looking at him (or maybe it’s the fact that Charles and Erik have ‘been together’ for a month already); and apparently surprised Charles, because now _he’s_ the one who’s rubbing smooth circles over Erik’s back.

“You only added each other on Facebook last night. I saw the little notification,” Jean says sceptically, but she’s giving a small smile, eyebrows quirked.

“Raven doesn’t really approve, so we’ve been keeping it on the down low.” Charles carries his lies so smoothly Erik nearly believes them.

“Is that why it’s not ‘Facebook Official’ yet?”

“Correct. Anyway, I think I see Emma, and I need to pull her aside quickly before she gets swamped and dragged to the depths of polite conversation. Keep Erik company and tell him about your mutation, wouldn’t you, possum?” He leans up and kisses Erik on his stubbly cheek, rubbing his arm and turns to Jean to squeeze her shoulder. Erik watches Charles trot off, and before he can panic he feels Charles in his head, saying, _don’t worry, I’m only going to talk to Emma about you-know-what. If you need me, I know the phrases ‘shit’ and ‘you are welcome’ in German, so think either one of them very loudly and I’ll come straight back._

Erik tries to keep the small humoured smile on his mouth from blowing up into a full on grin.

“Sorry, we’ve sort of- skipped mutation introductions. I’m telekinetic, but Charles is teaching me how to access my telepathy. He says he can feel it in my mind but it hasn’t manifested yet.” So she can’t read minds. Then the look she gave them before w _as_ because of Charles’ revelations, not Erik’s anger. That just seems to make him madder. “My boyfriend Scott can shoot plasma beams out his eyes.”

“The same as Alex,” Erik says tightly. “I’m sure you know already; I can control metal.”

“Yeah,” Jean laughs sheepishly. “Charles was the one to tell me, he was very enthusiastic about your mutation.”

“He was?” Erik was sort of convinced that Charles was too drunk to remember the way he flicked the lighter on, used his powers. But then he remembered the bewildered and excited gleam in his eyes as Erik cut up his breakfast, unconsciously moving the knife and fork on their own. He smiles a little at that. Remembers this is an act.

Silence settles, and before it turns palpable and irreversible, Erik asks, “So did you and Charles meet at university? Are you interested in biology as well?”

“Oh, no, no no,” Jean laughs. “I’m still in high school. I’m seventeen. And if I hear the words genome and mapping together in the same sentence one more time I will burn down this building.”

Erik chuckles. “I’m glad there’s someone else out there who feels the same. You telepaths are all very mature, though.” Lying is starting to come easily. Erik’s not sure if he’s glad or frightened.

“I guess that’s why you’re with Charles. He’s really smart. Everyone in the tutoring classes sees him like a big brother. Why don’t you come one afternoon?”

The tutoring classes. Right. Erik nods. He didn’t know about any tutoring classes. He has nothing to say. He has _nothing to say._

He isn’t left hanging, however, and Tabitha taps a glass that’s floating by her head with a small spoon. “Everyone! We’ll begin lunch in a moment, so if we could all find a seat, that would be lovely.”

Jean leads Scott and Erik towards the table, and Charles steps quickly up to them, Emma behind him and looking a little rumpled. She’s brought Marie, who trails the telepaths. Erik smiles when he sees her, and gives her a quick hug in greeting. This will be good for her. She’s not very good with people, what with her mutation.

“I didn’t expect to see you here,” Erik says when they sit down. Charles sidles in next to Erik, and Emma and Marie sit opposite them. Scott and Jean sit a little down the table from them, and a man that Erik thinks is called Edward sits on his left. Marie smiles a little, and flicks her eyes between him and Charles.

“I wasn’t expectin’ to see you here, either, boss.”

“If Logan hasn’t found out by Wednesday I will give you a pay rise,” Erik tells her earnestly, and she chuckles. “Everything okay, Emma?”

“Fine, sugar,” she tells him tartly. There will be words. Emma is glaring straight at him and she doesn’t hide it.

Tabitha says something along the lines of how happy she is to see all the new faces here, and Erik blocks her out and leans into Charles and mutters, “Tutoring?” and the kid hunkers down.

“I tutor here every weekday after uni. For free. I tutor in everything,” Charles whispers back, and he presses a small kiss to Erik’s cheek before he pulls back, settling into his seat. Erik finds that he didn’t actually mind, and lets the wet mark linger on his cheek. Emma is still glaring.

 People stand up a few at a time to shuffle with the plates and queue at the food tables. Erik opts for the cold pasta and the Greek salad and a bread roll, and Charles piles the same thing onto his plate. “Isn’t that a little bit too… much?” Erik whispers, and Charles whispers back, no, because they are in love, and in love couples do this. Erik’s not sure how anyone could believe that this kid gets around, what with his skewed ideas on what couples do. “A month, though?” he continues, and he slows down to give him and Charles more time to talk alone. “You realise we can’t end this next week, or anytime soon, now. Jean’s already onto us. It’s already been a month to her – we can’t just say it didn’t work out because we’re not compatible.”

“I know,” Charles whispers back, smiling as he settles into his seat. “She’ll think I only used you for the meeting, I know. We just won’t break up anytime soon.” He squeezes Erik’s arm, then butters his roll and smiles like nothing is out of the ordinary. They won’t break up anytime soon. Erik doesn’t know what he feels at that.

Conversations buzz in clusters around and along the tables when they’re all settled and enjoying their meal. Edward, the older telepath next to him, decides it’s a suitable time to talk to Erik, and Erik complies, because what else is there to do. Erik tells him about the business, and he can see Jean eying him from down the table in his periphery.

“You’re an orthodox young man?” Edward asks when he learns the restaurant is completely kosher.

“Yes, for my mother’s health,” Erik replies with a smile, and it seems to be the right answer.

Champagne has been popped, and glasses are being filled, and Edward continues, “Well, Charles, are you prepared to convert for your Erik? Or is that too much commitment?” Everyone guffaws, and Erik pretends not to notice Charles’ suddenly empty glass, and Charles’ suddenly empty laugh.

*

By the time two o’clock rolls around Charles’ glass has been empty on six separate occasions, and Erik tells Emma that he’s going to take Charles home. Emma takes Charles’ face in her thin hands and kisses his head. “You know they don’t mean it, sugar, they’re only joking,” she says softly in a hush. Charles’ presence in his mind is wobbly.

“I know, but it just gives me the shits. Is the joke really that funny? After two years is it really still that hilarious?”

“Shh now, honey. Come on, can you stand up straight for me? Tabitha’s looking. Erik’s gonna take you home, alright?”

“No,” Charles spits, eyes dropping and holding onto Emma’s shoulders. “Erik, please take me back to your house.”

“Alright,” Erik says without hesitation. “But we’re going to leave now, are you good to go?”

“I was good to go the moment we got here. Marie, where is Marie?” Charles swings around, and his hand only just misses touching Marie’s face before Erik pulls him to his chest with an unrestrained shout. Marie flinches back, and Erik feels overwhelmingly guilty and apologetic, but Marie smiles sadly, understandingly, cruelly understandingly, and strokes Charles’ face with her gloved hand when Erik’s sure he’s not going to reach out and grab her and end up seizing on the floor.

“You come by the restaurant, you hear? We’ll fix you up well. I don’t know what’s goin’ on between you and the boss, but we’ll still love you if he doesn’t.” The girl chuckles when Erik turns red, and Charles looks like he’s about to cry so Erik tries to walk him out the door unnoticed.

They take the elevator down to the lobby, and Charles walks on his own back to the carpark. They don’t say anything. Erik unlocks the car with a wave of his hands, and Charles slumps into the passenger seat passing off the keys to Erik.

“You want to come back to mine?” Erik asks gently, and Charles sniffles and says a watery, “Yeah.”

They don’t talk much on the drive back to Erik’s apartment, but Charles fiddles with the radio (Erik may or may not have tuned it in with his powers on Charles’ third attempt to find a non-static station), and Erik finds that the quiet isn’t awkward. It’s due. After hours of mindless chatter, which was no doubt doubled for Charles with the throng of minds and mouths working in tandem battering against his mental shields, the quiet is nice.

Charles’ voice, when it does come quietly, is wavering dangerously, low and weak and lined with anger. “I don’t care if they think I sleep around – there’s nothing wrong with that. I don’t see how it’s meant to be an offensive or shameful accusation. It’s just that they- they seem to think it’s _all I do_. I graduated high school when I was sixteen. I sit with hundreds of kids for hours every week, I remember all their names- but all people seem to remember about me is the amount of people I’ve kissed.” When Erik glances at him he’s staring out the window, face folded up in anger and frustration and sadness, and Erik thinks, that just wont do.

“Well, I hope they’re ready to move on to new jokes about you. I never got to tell them how you tried to give me a twiggy stick when you met me. I think that’s a bit more fun. ‘Charles Xavier, The Serial Sausage Gifter’.”

Charles’ laugh is clear, and even though his eyes are rimmed with red and unshed tears, Erik can feel the swell of happiness bubbling out of the telepath and flowing over to him.

*

When they get back to the apartment, Charles is still feeling a little bit drunk – and Erik begins to feel a little woozy, too – so Erik makes him drink a litre of water and sit in the empty space next to where Erik parked his eyesore of a car, and watch as Erik holds his hands out in front of him and fixes the damn, ugly thing.

He’s taken off his turtleneck – the sun’s come out and Erik doesn’t want to overheat when he’s trying to be impressive, and trying to make Charles feel a little better – and he keeps thinking of the little fantasy that Charles had slipped into his mind hours before. If it takes Erik being a grease monkey to make the kid happy, then he will damn well put up with the way his singlet is sticking to his back with sweat. Charles is smiling at him, and that’s what matters.

He pops the bonnet, checks the oil level, and when he sees that the water is almost empty he looks at Charles and says, “Where the fuck has the water gone, Charles?”

“What water?” Charles asks with a frown, and for someone going for a bachelor in biophysics this kid is clueless. A grade A+ nerd. He just doesn’t look it, like that Hank kid hanging off Raven’s arm had.

“You have a cracked radiator, Charles,” Erik tells him with a sigh.

“Oh. Is that serious?”

“The car can overheat and break down. It’s a little bit serious.”

“Oh. Can you fix it?”

And Erik stares at him and tells him, again, to love himself, and flexes his hands a few times.

“Give me that bottle of water please. I’ll run down to the automotive store and buy coolant for you later, but filtered water will have to do. This is how you fill it up.”

After, he drops the hood, runs his hands over the paint, and Charles gasps when the rust falls away as easy as dust.

“If you won’t take care of your car for you, Charles, please take care of it for _me_.”

They head inside a little while later, and Charles flops down on the couch, a little tired from the excitement of fixing cars, and Erik smiles at him and brushes his fingers through Charles’ hair as he passes on his way to his bedroom. He doesn’t miss Charles hum quietly.

He pulls on his work uniform, leaving his jacket unbuttoned over his singlet. Charles is still dozing when he steps out into the living room, and Erik crouches next to him, combing his fingers through Charles’ fluffy hair again. He makes a small noise and shifts closer.

“Charles? I have to go to work for a few hours. Will you be okay here or would you like to come with me?”

“Mm, is it okay if I meet you there later?” Charles mumbles, and Erik tells him that’s fine.

“You know where everything is? You can eat anything in the fridge, TV remotes are on the coffee table and you can have a shower if you want. Help yourself to any of my clothes. I’ll leave the keys on the table, too. I can lock the door myself.”

Charles keeps his eyes shut, but he nods, rubbing his cheek against the soft fabric of the couch. “Thank you. Have a good shift, darling. Love you.”

Erik stares at him a moment, heart fluttering in his throat and cold nerves mixing in his belly. “We don’t have to pretend anymore,” he says lightly.

“I know.”

When Erik steps out the door, locking it with a flick of his fingers behind him, he’s not sure what he feels anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tabitha and Edward are just OCs I guess, no one from the xmen universe. i did try to find Actual Mutants but i was lazy so i didnt dig very deep.
> 
> Edit: User Seiridis pointed out in the comments that in canon, Charles _can_ actually understand foreign languages, as stated on his wiki page: "He can learn foreign languages by reading the language centers of the brain of someone adept, and alternately "teach" languages to others in the same manner." I actually flicked over Charles' wiki page as i wrote this fic, but i missed this detail. Either, Charles can't understand Erik's german because he isnt delving into Erik's brain and actually trying to understand him, or Charles is just young and so he hasnt accessed this ability yet. Conversely, i can just omit this fact because this is an AU, but thats not very fun, ahh.


	3. Only Blue or Black Days

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big thank you to all the comments, kudos, bookmarks, and subscriptions, as well as to everyone for taking the time to read this fic :) x

The restaurant is mainly busy in the mornings, midday and at night for breakfast, lunch and dinner. In between those times, most customers only come to the café section of the shop, and the cooks cover each other as they go get their weekly groceries, head home for a shower, or have a nap in the few hours they get for their breaks. When Erik steps on as Azazel’s relief at three, the Russian claps him on the back and kisses Janos on the mouth. No one’s surprised, and Janos continues scribbling down on his notepad as he lets it happen.

“Logan,” he says when Azazel’s done, ignoring the squeeze on his rear his husband gives him as the teleporter saunters down the back. “We need more of your vegan banana bread and carrot cake. Stocks are low out the front. And if someone could make some fresh spinach and cheese pastries, that would be great.” He tears off his list and holds it up to the magnetic order strip, and Erik moves the magnet over the top. “Also some subs won’t go to waste.”

“On it, boss,” Logan says, rolling his sleeves and pulling out a mixing bowl. “How was your lunch?” he asks Erik, who’s bent over the sink, scrubbing his nails. Damn whoever installed this shitty thing and damn his height. He usually gets a crick in his neck from all the bending, and his knee gets stiff sometimes from holding the pressure panel down. “Marie me told all about it a few days ago, how Emma had invited her, but she messaged me today saying she saw you...”

There’s a tone to Logan’s voice, and Erik asks, “Anything else you wanted to say, Howlett?” eyebrow raised and eyes perceptive. Logan shuffles over to the store room, and returns holding a paper bag of gluten free flour in one hand and a bunch of bananas in the other. He flicks a glance around the kitchen before continuing. They’re the only two here at the moment.

“She said you were with a young guy, a telepath like Emma.”

“And there goes Marie’s pay rise,” Erik laughs, drying his hands and walking to his station. He doesn’t even need to focus his mind on the knife next to him shredding spinach, or the steel grater slicing the block of cheese further over, and he heads to the freezer room to grab some sheets of pastry, the knife and grater still working on their own.

“Nah, don’t blame her, I badgered her til she spilt. I kept saying, ‘why would Erik be at a telepath lunch if it’s invite-only?’ and she only said you had a new telepath friend. Young. He came for breakfast last week, didn’t he? That the one? I’m not saying you’re anything but friends. We won’t get jealous. We know we’ll always be your favourites.”

“How did you know he came for breakfast last week?”

“You didn’t notice it took Emma an awful long time to check her shifts? She was out back here. She told us that she needed to give you and the kid some space. Unlike Marie, it doesn’t take Emma a shit-ton of whining until she tells all. She’ll be the one whinging _to tell_ people.”

“I know,” Erik says gruffly, cutting large triangles into the frozen pastry sheets with another knife and heating a pot for the mixture.

“If you’d let me use my mutation in the cooking everything would get done ten times quicker, you know.”

“Logan, I’d prefer it if you use the knives I provide the kitchen rather than the knives you provide out of your hands. It’s unsanitary.” But he’s smiling a little.

“You would, you fun killer.” A moment goes by, and Logan continues, just like Erik knew he would. “You wanna talk about it, bub? No pressure, no pressure.”

Erik sighs walks over to the cool room, gets the ricotta, walks back, watches another bunch of silverbeet go under the knife. Logan’s good at giving advice, in his weird way. He doesn’t lie about things. He doesn’t say things will get better when they won’t. It’s refreshing, a cold slap of truth in the warm, blissful ignorance of fallacy.

“Charles and I met at a party, not the Friday gone but the one before. Charles and Emma met at their TTMA, and at the party, Charles was just a drunk kid having fun and holding my hand. I just looked out for him, is all. But all his friends think he puts out at the minute someone smiles at him, and he’s told me that’s not true. I _know_ that’s not true. At the party, he just held my arm. He just wanted to dance and take photos and hold my hand. They act like he’s some great king of sexual conquests, like he peruses men and women day and night. All he wants to do is help kids and talk about fucking _biophysics_ , whatever bullshit that is.”

“Erik,” Logan calls gently, and Erik realises that the knife has decimated the spinach, and he sighs and leans on the counter. “What else?”

“He invited me to that meeting to prove to everyone that he _can_ hold a relationship, by pretending that he’s my partner. It’s a lie for a lie.”

“Only you’re not sure if it’s really pretending anymore,” Logan continues, and Erik sighs.

“I can’t have a relationship. You know that. You remember Magda.”

“Oh boy,” the man laughs, “Do I remember Magda.”

“I’m at the restaurant constantly. He has university. He graduated high school when he was _sixteen_ , and I barely scraped through. I can’t drag him down. He has to go out and do something with his life, he can’t stay with me running a restaurant day and night; even if I knew how to have a relationship.”

Logan hums, whisking the batter for the banana bread. His muscles bulge against his work jacket, and his hair is pulled into a neat bun and tucked under his cap. “Sounds like you care an awful lot about this kid, and from my experience, that’s all a relationship is – you care about each other, you laugh together; kiss a little and get each other off a little, if that’s what you both wanna do. You’re not a workaholic, Erik. You work because that’s all you’ve got. You visit your mom every week; you take time off for that, don’t you. If this kid is a permanent fixture in your life you’re gonna want to sleep in a little longer, leave work a little earlier, just to get home to him quicker.  Who knows, if he’s such the genius you say he is, maybe you can hire him to do your paper work and you can stop spending hours fucking around doing even more work for this place, eh? Does he have a job already? That’s a real possibility, him working a side job here.”

“I don’t think he does – I hardly even know him, Logan.”

“Stop your sighing, Lehnsherr,” Logan snaps at him, throwing a banana skin at him for good measure. “Ask him on a date. You wanna know more about him, and he needs to prove to those fuckers that he can go steady. It’s a perfect cover.”

Erik finishes the pastries and leans against the counter, watching Logan put his cakes in the oven. “You should have a TV programme – ‘Baking and Loving with Logan Howlett’.”

“Is that a show where I show people how to make cakes and give them love advice or a show where I _get_ baked and _do_ some love advice? We gotta specify these things, Lehnsherr. Time slots, ratings; gotta make sure there’s no kids out there getting a show they’re not ready for.”

Erik laughs, and starts making some subs while he waits.

*

When Alex comes back on shift three hours later, he’s got a deep purple marked sucked into his neck that he’s desperately trying to cover with the popped collar of his jacket. “You come in the back, Summers?” Logan calls out when the kid washes his hands and hurries to his bay. “Because we don’t want you giving the customers the idea that this vegan, vegetarian, and kosher establishment is also a venue to express free love. If I walk out the front and see an orgy, Erik will fire you faster than Armando can make you cream your pants.”

Erik’s shaking his head, laughing and frying up some of the mock-schnitzel in preparation for the dinner rush. Alex’s face is redder than the hotplate under his pan. “We already have enough damn hippies as it is, it’s like Woodstock. I would know; I went. So If I so much as smell a joint on a white man with nasty dreds, from this very station, where I am icing this very cake, in the next ten minutes, you will be out on your ass.”

Erik can hardly contain his laughter now and Alex is frantically saying, “I came in the back, I came through the damn back, alright?”

No one except Marie knows exactly how old Logan is, but they all know that he’s seen a lot of shit. He’s a good man, a free man, not locked in any expectations or any experiments. He can make his cakes and smoke his cigars and give everyone shit and make everyone laugh. He’s like the uncle that everyone loves.

When Armando comes into the kitchen, Logan’s about to open his mouth and prattle on about hickeys and professionalism in the work place, but Armando holds up his hand, cutting off a conversation he’s already listened to and will no doubt have to listen to again in the future, and heads straight for Erik. “There’s a young man out front wanting to speak with you,” he says evenly, but there’s a small pinch in his brow. “He says his names Charles Xavier; he’s that kid, right? The one from the breakfast?”

Erik doesn’t comment, simply pulling his lips tight and staring past the waiter’s shoulder. He’s going to fire Emma the next time he sees her. “Bring him back here, Armando.” He manages eventually, and flicks his eyes to the pan, the sizzling and spitting oil, running his powers over all the metal in the room.

Armando steps back into the kitchen a few minutes later – not looking once at Alex and Alex doesn’t glance at him – and Charles is behind him, hands in the pockets of his cardigan. He’s showered; he’s showered, and he’s wearing Erik’s shirt, the white one with the v-neck cut and Erik reminds himself, German German German, and Charles smiles up at him timidly. “Hey,” he says. Erik’s mouth is dry and that shirt is too big for Charles, and the v-neck is deeper than it is on him, and Erik is taller, has more of a vantage point, and Logan clears his throat exceptionally loudly, and Erik licks his chapped lips.

He glances at Logan, who is giving him a ‘what the absolute fuck are you doing, Lehnsherr’ kind of a look, and Erik snaps his focus back into place. “Sorry, hi. How are you feeling?”

Erik has half the mind to slide a magnet over the order note Armando is holding by the strip. Charles is looking as calm as he was before, not flustered and messy like he is. “A lot better, thank you. I hope you don’t mind, my other shirt smelt a little bit like wine.” He says, plucking at Erik’s shirt.

“No, no, it’s fine. I hope my closet wasn’t too messy,” Erik manages. “Sorry, this is Armando Muñoz; that’s his- friend, Alex Summers over there, and this is Logan Howlett.” The others should start filtering in for their night shift soon. Wanda is seating people tonight, but Erik doesn’t know if Charles had seen her, or if he’d gone straight to Armando to find Erik.

“Scott’s brother?”

“You know Scott?” Alex asks stiffly, turning around slower than Erik knows he probably would at the mention of his little brother. He’s mindful to avoid knocking his collar out of place.

“He’s dating one of my good friends, Jean Grey.” Alex nods at that.

“She’s a cool chick, telekinetic, right? Part of that group at the MIC?”

“Yeah, we’re in it together. We met through the group, actually. I met Emma Frost, from here, there as well.”

“Scott starts working here on Tuesday,” Erik says with a smirk, but there’s worry behind his eyes that Charles picks up on.

“Oh. Wow. That’ll be interesting. Scott doesn’t know you’re his boss, does he.” It isn’t a question. His voice whispers in Erik’s head, mindful of Logan and Alex overhearing, thoughts running and quick. _And he said all that stuff today about me, to you, to his boss, who is pretending to be my partner; who, in his opinion, cares about me, and would probably take great offence to things said about me on my behalf._

Erik nods slowly, and Alex is talking to Muñoz quietly. Charles sucks a breath in through his teeth. “Shit for him.”

“Shit for him, indeed.”

They fall quiet for a moment. Charles watches him flipping the schnitzels from the other side of the bay, and Erik glances over at Logan when he feels the beast of a man staring at him. He’s squeezing orange cream out of his piping bag, but keeping his eye’s locked on Erik. He knows what he’s thinking. He just hopes that Logan remembered Charles is a telepath and Charles doesn’t know what he’s thinking, too.

Erik starts slowly, biting his lips and pulling down two pots with his power after he glances at the new order Armando has given him – GF alfredo, extra chives. “I finish in an hour,” he begins, and Erik thinks that if he goes any slower Logan will squeeze mango flavoured cream into his eyes. “We can grab something to eat. If you wanted to wait. The wifi password is ‘magnets’. After we could… see a movie, or something. I have nothing on tonight.” He doesn’t even know what he’s saying. See a movie? What? Oh God he won’t shut up; “We could check in on Facebook and everyone would see that we both do have social lives. Show people you go on dates.” Dates? Going on a date? Is this a date now? A fake date or a real one? Alex is staring at him now, and Armando is trying to keep his eyes from blowing up as he writes and then rewrites and then tries a third time to finish jotting down a checklist for tonight’s close. Logan is laughing to himself.

Charles smiles at him, a real smile not tinged with sadness and anger, one he hasn’t seen since before the meeting, and Erik knows he’s gone. Logan and Armando and Alex and the entire damn city probably knows it, too. “I’d love to. But first, you have to teach me how to cook, because at the moment my culinary expertise includes _and_ is limited to two-minute noodles and instant mash potato.”

“Please tell me that isn’t true,” Erik whispers. “First the car. Now this. Please, Charles.” The kid just smiles sheepishly at him, and Erik grabs him by the arm, drags him down the back, yells at Logan to man the pans and pulls out a spare jacket for Charles. “How are you alive,” he mutters to himself, as he pulls a hair cap over Charles’ messy brown curls.

*

Azazel and Emma step on shift half an hour later, and Emma smirks and kisses Charles on a floury cheek before tying her waiting apron around her hips. Logan tells Erik that he’s finished his cakes for open tomorrow, and he, Alex and Azazel can manage any big swarms of customers. Sunday nights are never too busy, and he’ll probably end up waiting tables with Emma and Wanda the way Armando and Alex are eyeing each other off. Erik just hopes they don’t fuck while clocked on. Erik and Charles can head out, get a bite, catch a movie. When Charles is busy scooping the alfredo pasta that _he himself_ created into a take away container, Logan gives him a thumbs up. Erik gives him the finger.

He quickly rinses off his pots and pans with the dish hose in the sink room, so that Kurt doesn’t have too hard a job tonight when he steps in later, and when he returns, Charles is fiddling with the apron knot. Suddenly there’s two containers of pasta, and Erik eyes him and takes the pasta pot back to the sink room for rinsing. When he comes back Charles is still fiddling, and Erik sighs and steps up behind him, probably closer than needed, and Charles ends up pressed to the bay. No one looks up from their work, no one pays them any mind, and Erik picks at the messy knot with his fingernails and doesn’t think about the way Charles is leaning forward over the bay, supporting himself with straight-locked arms and breathing heavily.

The knuckles on Erik’s fingers keep knocking against Charles’ spine. When the knot finally slips open, Erik’s standing so close his knees are brushing against the backs of Charles’ thighs, and he puts one hand on the telepath’s hip to keep the apron from falling to the ground. Charles shudders.

They get home (Charles insisted on a drag race but Erik told him his car would probably fall apart the moment he hit sixty), Erik cleans up, heats the alfredo (it’s not bad, it’s not, but the pasta is a little hard and the sauce hasn’t got enough cheese) and when they check in at the cinema Erik’s aunt likes the post, and a slew of other people he’s never heard of (even Raven). He doesn’t doubt he will soon. Charles has nearly one thousand Facebook friends. Erik feels a little put out. They fight over sweet or salty popcorn, and the film Charles chooses is part of some ongoing action comic-to-film franchise that Erik’s a little too tired to follow the story of. That, and he’s hardly paying attention because Charles keeps sending him snarky mental commentary about the characters. Erik tries to keep his snorts from turning into chuckles, and so keep the looks of the other patrons at bay.

It’s late when they get back, but Charles tells Erik he shouldn’t stay because he has uni early in the morning. Erik walks him back down to the lobby, like before, and he catches himself from kissing Charles and remembers that it wasn’t actually a date. They didn’t touch once when there was no one there to see it. They’re just friends.

*

The old week churns into the new, and the days tumble over in the same way. Charles has classes til around one, and then he goes to the MIC to tutor until five. After that he’ll study at the restaurant, either down the back or at the table by the window he, Erik, and Emma first sat at if he’s ordering. When it dies down around nine at night, Erik pulls out the jacket and cap for Charles and he’ll teach him a meal. He’s not allowed to cook for customers though. Erik doesn’t think he’s quite ready for that. Not sure if he’ll ever be ready. Then, when Erik’s station is cleared, they’ll chat and eat, or sit down the back and Erik will listen to Charles prattle on and on about genetics, but Erik never gets tired of hearing about it. That surprises him a little.

Scott’s visor does nothing to hide the terrified look that warps his face when he recognises Erik on Tuesday, standing with his arms folded and a tea towel over his shoulder. He’s not mad, but his eyebrow is quirked and he’s got a tug on his lips, and the kid hardly pays attention to Logan when the man tells him how to work the registers, how long a meal can be under the heat lamp, where to go to find what. When Charles kisses Erik on the cheek one night after close and Scott is counting his register, he nearly drops the entirety of it on the floor. Erik locks the door after Charles leaves, with a stack of books under one arm and several takeaway boxes under the other, and sometimes he looks back over his shoulder to where Erik watches to make sure he gets to his car safely. The smile Charles gives him, when there’s no one there to fool, when there’s no one else there to see it, pulls the breath from his lungs and the strings on his heart. Every time.

By the end of the week, Erik has seen nearly ten people that he’s met through Charles in the restaurant. He feels he should be happier. Tabitha always tips well, so Emma certainly is. After the next week, Erik has seen twenty.

Erik and Charles will flick messages off to each other during the day, and the times when they’re not together. Erik tells himself that this is what friends do. He and Emma often text; but they do see enough of each other at work. “That means you don’t get tired of him,” Logan tells him one day when they sit out on the back step and Logan chews on a cigar while Erik stares at the orange on his cigarette. That’s true. But then he’s not sure what the wretched feeling is that crawls into his gut every time he wakes in the twilight of three am, and his fingers pass over the cool cotton of his sheets rather than the warm skin on Charles’ flank or shoulder. He’s definitely tired of that. Definitely annoyed at Charles for that. The nights he wakes up covered in sweat with his fingers twisted around the headboard, though, the feeling of Charles’ mouth on the inside of his hips and his hands in places Erik knows they’ll never be – those nights are definitely worse than the loneliness, and he loathes Charles for doing this to him.

In a sleepless, dark and empty morning, he drives to the Auto-Plus and buys coolant. He imagines Charles is still at home, at _Erik’s_ home, curled on the right side of _his_ bed and soft in sleep; relishes in the domesticity, til he gets home and the bubble is popped.

Charles hasn’t been back to Erik’s apartment since the Sunday lunch and their movie night rendezvous, and Erik is grateful. It’s enough already having to deal with the empty space by his side at his cooking station during the days. He doesn’t think he’d be able to sit in an empty apartment for long without the press of Charles’ mind, or the mess of his school books over the lounge and the table and the counter once he’d become used to it; like the way he’s used to Charles slipping their fingers together when Scott’s on shift.

*

It’s after a quiet lunch peak where the customers streamed through sparsely in small groups and the orders were lazy that Wanda calls Erik out the front for Charles, lips and eyes dark with makeup in the way worn by newly brooding high school graduates. Her red nails chink against the doorway where she taps them, waiting for Erik to wash his hands off (and subtly comb his fingers through his hair). He ignores her smirk.

Charles is swathed in a long knitted cardigan, as is his usual attire, with a scarf tied on his neck like a bow on a present Erik wouldn’t mind unwrapping. His cheeks are plump and red, and he has a pair of glasses perched on his strong nose. Erik didn’t know he wore glasses.

“For reading,” Charles explains, regarding Erik’s small frown. He frowns even deeper.

“You can read?”

Charles puffs his cheeks and looks out the window. Wanda snorts.

“What’ll it be, Mr _Lehnsherr_?” she asks as she sidles back to the server side of the counter, leaning on the register, and Charles rolls his eyes.

“Stop teasing me, both of you. Actually, I was wondering if Erik would like to come with me to the study group today?” He turns his head to look at Erik as he speaks, eyes wide and imploring behind the basic black frame of his spectacles. Wanda’s gaze is slow and thick as she slides her eyes onto her boss, dark mouth puckered in a small smirk.

Charles doesn’t even need to pose it as a question; what choice does Erik ever have when it comes to Charles and his whims. A glance at the clock on the wall tells him it’s nearly three; he pretends to think it over a moment, trying to hide the eagerness of his compliancy.

“Alright. I’ll be out in ten.” Charles beams.

Erik sends Wanda off to tell the kitchen he’s leaving, and he can hear Alex’s wolf whistle as he trudges to the lockers and pulls out his spare clothes – just jeans and a shirt, but it’ll do. On his way back to dining, he sticks his head to glare at his cooks. Emma smirks at him where she’s chopping peppers on his bay.

“Not a date,” he says adamantly. Marie’s trying to hide her smile with a pot. Emma shrugs.

“No, Chef,” Emma says, like she could never even fathom the idea. Erik regrets cross-training her.

Charles loops their arms when Erik emerges into the dining area, even though Wanda isn’t looking and Erik doesn’t recognise anyone at the tables. He’s chattering on about his morning lectures, how Hank took Raven on a disastrous date today, about how his fridge is currently packed full of takeout containers from the restaurant. “Good,” Erik tells him. He needs to eat.

Charles has parked his car in the staff parking area, right next to Erik, in lieu of his usual slot out the front on the street. The domestic warmth is back in Erik’s chest, trickling between his ribs. Erik’s not even ashamed to have such a terrible car next to his own – it belongs to Charles, how could he be.

The locks pop up as they stride over to it, and Charles gives his arm a light squeeze. He asks him about his day as they slide in, and Erik hardly thinks when he pulls Charles’ seat belt secure with his power as he recounts. When he glances up at the kid, he’s flushing, and staring out the front window.

There’s a pair of heels in Erik’s foot space, sprawled on the floor with the receipts and flecks of dirt (he supposes they’re from Raven’s Disastrous Date – Hank really should have told her rock climbing _does kind of_ have a specific dress code). The same stacks of books and folders line the back seat, albeit in a different order. There’s a new scented card hanging from the mirror. Charles has his glasses pushed up in his hair, tufts errant and stuck at weird angles. Erik supposes that’s how the kid’s hair gets so frazzled.

“I was thinking,” the telepath begins. “There are a few kids in the tutoring groups that are interested in chef apprenticeships, and would rather pursue trades than study right now, and who better to talk to them about the food industry – and about owning their own business – than you. Of course, you don’t have to speak to them if you don’t want to, but it could be good for the kids…” Charles glances around quickly before merging, bottom lip caught in his teeth.

“I’d be happy to talk to them,” Erik says honestly. “I can call up the old places I’ve worked and set up interviews for them as well, if that’d help.” Charles makes a happy noise.

“It really would,” he says gently, and Erik reaches over absentmindedly and squeezes his thigh.

 Charles leads him through the hallways to one of the rec rooms after they pull up, arms full of the books and folders from his car, and Erik can already hear the mass of teens all gossiping and prattling. When Charles steps into the room with Erik in tow, along with a big smile and a greeting, they all hush; whether from his presence, or out of their respect for Charles. Some of the kid’s parrot him and greet them back, but Erik knows they’re all watching him with interest. As his gaze passes over the mob – maybe twenty of them, or so – he recognises a few that have come to the restaurant. Raven’s among them, arms folded moodily, and Hank is sitting across the way on the opposite couch, looking very forlorn.

He catches one boy whisper fervently, “Is that Erik?” and he quirks an eyebrow.

Charles is stacking the folders on the centre table, pulling off his scarf, jabbering on, and Erik stoops to do the same with his pile. “Okay guys, this is Erik, and he’s going to join us today-”

“Like your _boyfriend_? _That_ Erik?” calls out someone. Charles quickly glances at Erik, eyes wide, but his face settles into a smile; recomposes himself.

“Yes, the same Erik Lehnsherr, Bobby. Never mind that though- for those of you interested in undertaking an apprenticeship Erik’s here to talk to you about the process and what to expect.”

The teens pull themselves into little groups of four sitting around the central table, dragging notebooks stuffed with crumpled worksheets from their bags, along with pencil cases stained with ink spills and graffiti. Charles is in his element with the kids, and Erik is reminded that they’re only a few years apart by the way he jokes with them.

He sits on the couch, with the boy from before, Bobby, another boy named with a shock of orange hair and a long, wiry teenaged body, and a girl named Kitty whom he thinks isn’t actually interested in the food industry but more Charles’ love life. He continues on talking about the fundamentals of apprenticeships, the do’s and don’ts, and he catches Charles glancing over at him with a warm smile from time to time from where he sits with the groups at the table.

“I’ve been to your restaurant a few times; I really like it. Charles tells us all to go nearly every time he comes to study groups.” Kitty tells him.

Erik swallows and manages a thank you, and pretends he doesn’t feel suddenly a little sick. Because this is what this is all for, isn’t it?. Promotion for the restaurant. That’s all. That’s why he’s doing this. The domestic wisp of an illusion is blown away momentarily. He tries to hide the fact he’s affected by its absence.

“Charles talks about _Erik_ all the time, not just the restaurant,” Sean laughs.

A while later they merge back with the rest of the group to carry on the tutoring. Erik passed exceptionally well in history and mathematics, even if only high school grade, but for the high schoolers that’s all they really need. They’re all mutants, even though Charles says he wouldn’t mind if non-mutant children wanted to join (but so far none have taken the offer), and Erik easily distracts them from their studies by encouraging their gifts, much to Charles’ feigned chagrin. When Charles clears his throat and tells them they’ll be done soon, wait til then to be show offs, Erik grins wickedly at Kitty and slides the pen out from Charles’ grip, across the table to where he sits opposite. The girl laughs and Charles stares at them in shock. Even Raven snickers.

Charles twists his lips into a tight smile, and pulls another pen from his case. Then the binder in front of him slides over to Erik by the metal rings, and the smile flows into a cheeky grin. The entire table is watching them now and laughing and cheering, as one by one Erik pulls the students’ belongings over to his side. “It seems they don’t have the materials to carry on studying, Charles,” Erik says innocently. Charles rolls his eyes, but they’re warm, and filled with affection. One girl opens a portal to the other side of the room and throws her pencil case into it. When there’s nothing on one side of the table, Charles throws up his hands in agitation, but he’s trying not to laugh himself.

“Alright! You are all terrible. I cannot believe this. Erik, I thought you were above this. Unbelievable.”

“Erik’s in the doghouse now! You’ll be sleeping on the couch tonight,” someone calls out, and Charles mutters, “You bet he will.”

It’s only just gone four, but the mutants are riled and unwilling to participate any longer – that and Bobby has frozen all the ink in the pens. Raven is sitting in Hank’s lap, all is well again. Erik joins Charles in stacking the folders and the text books up into towers to take to the car later on, and Charles knocks their hips together playfully.

“Sorry for ruining your tutoring for today,” he says quietly through a grin. Charles gives an extraordinarily loud and exaggerated sigh.

“So you should be; I can’t take you anywhere.” Erik snickers. Charles looks up to him, eyes serious, but still gentle and open as always. “I’m glad they’ve warmed to you, though. A lot of the kids don’t take to strangers, because of their pasts. They love you already.”

“Sean and Bobby seem interested apprenticeships – Bobby more on the business side of things, but I can make some phone calls tonight and get placements for them. I told them I’d do that.”

“I know,” Charles says sheepishly. “Sean told me privately,” he punctuates with a tap on his temple, “He’d rather work for you directly- if that’s okay.” Erik nods thoughtfully.

They stand close in quiet together as they stack, thighs brushing every so often. Erik retrieves the pen and the binder. Around them everyone is laughing, paying them no mind, and Erik feels completely at ease in the throng. He can hardly remind himself to not get used to this, because there’s no way things will stay like this. He probably won’t see the majority of these kids again.

Charles stretches, rolling his neck and sighing. “I’m going to the cafeteria for a coffee. Would you like anything?” From their proximity, Charles has to crane his head even further up to meet Erik’s eyes.

“Just whatever you’re having, please,” he says quietly. “Be back soon.”

“I will be,” Charles says, impossibly softer, eyes flicking over Erik’s face.

It’s so quick and so normal that Erik doesn’t process it until moments after, but Charles rolls up to the toes of his shoes and kisses Erik quickly, lips brushing the corner of his mouth. They stare at each other when Charles pulls away, eyes blown wide in panic and face and neck steadily growing redder. Erik smiles at him before it can get awkward, before anyone can notice the odd way they’re looking at each other, before anyone can realise that what happened was a slip up.

“No sugar, just milk too, please,” Erik saves. Charles had probably been aiming for his cheek – and it wasn’t like a full mouth to mouth kiss. Charles _would_ have been aiming for his cheek, of course he would, they’d talked about kissing and it was out of the question. They weren’t going to pretend so far that they’d kiss, unless, it _wasn’t_ pretending-

Erik can pretend it didn’t happen. Charles looks almost grateful that he will. He smiles quickly, forced, and scurries out of the room.

That night, back at Erik’s apartment, he tells himself that it’ll hurt less if he doesn’t run the kiss through his mind, over and over. But he still does.

*

On Saturday afternoon, when Emma comes on to relieve Erik, chef’s uniform white and pressed and as pristine as her waitress’ uniform, his phone buzzes in the pocket of his uniform pants, and he rubs his hands off on the towel on his shoulder, and his fingers nearly slip to accept the call when he sees it’s from Charles. A million thoughts rush into his mind; they’ve teased Charles to breaking point at the meeting and he’s lashed out, he’s sitting in the bathroom crying because he’s sick of his friends – but Charles’ voice is airy and light and not with alcohol, and Erik’s heart settles once more.

“Erik! Hi, I’m at the centre and they’ve got fliers up for the gym – they’re doing half price memberships, probably because it’s getting colder now, and we can’t all be like you and willingly jog through snow storms. I was wondering if maybe you’d like to sign up with me?”

He doesn’t jog in the snow. Not since he slipped on the icy footpath and he nearly broke his ankle. Charles _does_ know that story. “Yeah, okay. When do you want to do it?” he asks, walking out the back, pulling his jacket on and grabbing his bag before heading to the staff parking.

“What about now? No time like the present, and everything.”

“What like, right now? Aren’t you at the meeting?”

“The meeting’s already ended, and everyone has left,” Charles tells him quietly.

“What about gym clothes? Are you going to work out wearing a cardigan? I’m not studying biology or anything but I _do_ know that that isn’t actually ideal, Charles.”

There’s a muffled, quiet breath of laughter from the other side of the phone. Erik tries to ignore it. “No, I actually have some gym clothes with me. I- ah, well… The fliers have been up for a little while now…”

So Charles has been thinking about this. Been thinking about asking Erik to do something together. Been thinking about Erik. He’s jumping too far.

“Alright,” Erik tells him, with a not-actually-as-grumpy-as-he-wants-to-seem-sounding sigh. “I just finished work, so I’ll get my clothes and come round. I should be there in half an hour.”

*

It’s now the fifth time Erik’s been to the Mutant Information Centre, and he supposes, with Charles involved in his life now, it probably won’t be the last. He’s sitting by a vending machine in the lobby, flicking on his phone when Erik walks into the building, duffle bag beside him on the seat.

He smiles when Erik steps into the air-conditioned space, and Erik secretly relishes in the press of Charles against his mind – not in his head, not sifting through his thoughts and knowing all the terrible things that Erik’s dreamt they’ve done together; just warm and solid, shifting with Charles’ own thoughts, like the way Charles’ chest steadily rises and steadily falls when they’re pressed together. The telepath walks over to him, and Erik notices he has a small cluster of pimples against the left side of his jaw. He’s still beautiful.

The fourth floor has a counter just outside the elevator and stairway entrances, and a dark girl with lime green hair sits clicking at her computer. She knows Charles. It doesn’t really surprise Erik. He forks over his card to pay for a membership he doesn’t think he’ll use much, while Charles pays in cash. Beyond the counter Erik can spy a large clearing through the glass doors, with treadmills and cross-trainers lined neatly next to each other. In front of them are rowing machines and assemblages of weight lifting stations. Several doors and corridors come off the clearing, and Erik assumes they go to smaller rooms for personal training and dance classes. He’d signed up to the gym in town, but only went twice or three times. Work keeps him on his feet mostly, anyway. He doesn’t have time to be lazy.

Charles leads him to the male rooms and they dump their bags. “You can’t be serious,” Erik says, when Charles meets him outside in his sweat pants and jumper. “You’ll overheat. You can’t work out in that.”

“What’s wrong?” Charles asks with a frown, hands on his hips. “You’re wearing track pants; they’d be hot, too.”

Erik just shakes his head.

It becomes apparent, ten minutes in, that Charles has no idea what he’s doing at all, and so far Erik has had to stop the treadmill with his powers three times already, lest the kid go flying off into the barrage of gym equipment.

“Maybe, just- just keep it at a fast walk, alright?” Erik tells him. He’s jogging, but his mind is on Charles, and trying to make sure he doesn’t end up through the glass doors at the counter as a repercussion of his competitiveness. Erik sets the speed for him with a flick of his hand from across the way, and when Charles puffs out his lips he raises an eyebrow. “Please,” he finally begs, and Charles puts his hands out placating, and resigns himself to his steady pace. Erik notices that his cheeks are already flushed and his hair is sticking to his forehead.

 _The jumper is fine,_ Charles insists moodily.When Erik glances over at him again, he’s trying to keep his chapped lips from quirking.

They carry on in fine silence for a little while, the whir of the treadmills and the music on the sound system filling the comfortable spaces between them. Charles takes a long draw from his water bottle, and then he clears his throat.

“What’s your family like, Erik? What’s your backstory that I should tell my mother?”

Erik’s mouth falls open and snaps shut. “Your mother knows about me?”

“Yes, well, it doesn’t take long for my family to find out things like this.”

“Oh. Right.” He’s not really sure what Charles means by that, but he carries on with quick answers. “My mother lives in the town over. My father died when I was younger. No siblings, but an orthodox family. I finished high school, worked as an apprentice chef in the day and cooked in a bar at night while studying business at the community college and bought my restaurant when I was twenty-six. Lots of part-time jobs between all that.”

Charles nods, and Erik can hear his heavy breathing. “Good. That’s good. Do you- do you know about the reputation tied to the Xavier name?”

“What, there’s more than you being a slut?”

Charles snorts. “Yes. The Xavier-Marko family comes from old money. If my mother ever invites you to meet her, do remember that. It can be overwhelming.”

“Ah,” says Erik, gums and throat tinged a little sour. He keeps his thoughts in German on reflex now. Charles’ joblessness still comes to mind. “Sorry. Should I have known that? Are you famous or something?”

“No, it’s- it’s actually refreshing,” Charles admits. “Only in high society, but alas, my fame comes from my alleged notoriety, and my name is only whispered because I took my trust fund and fled.”

Erik’s not sure if he’s allowed to ask or to delve into that, but Charles clicks his tongue and continues. “Stop that. Ask anything. If you keep plaguing me with your indecisiveness it doesn’t matter what you set this speed at, I’ll still end up halfway across the room.”  Erik knows he means his words well. It isn’t attacking, or accusing. He’s known Charles long enough now to filter his words.

“Do you expect I’ll be meeting her soon? Your mother?” Charles shrugs.

“It depends how much she knows about us, really. We talk. Sometimes. I’m mostly busy with my studies, however, and she’ll be busy with her mixes.”

Erik doesn’t really believe he’s said it, even after the words have come out. “Ah, so the alcoholism is hereditary I see. Well then, our children will have to come from me, I’m afraid, and a woman without similar afflictions.”

Charles grins down at the keypad on the treadmill. “Our children? We’re having children?”

“If you want,” Erik jokes, breathless from his jogging and from other reasons, too.

“If I want,” Charles repeats, looking up. “I’d like a girl, and a boy.”

“Well then,” Erik announces. “A girl and a boy it is.”

It’s a joke. It’s a joke, layered over a fallacy, which is layered over a compromise. But hidden deep, in a shut up, sealed off part of him, he wonders where the line of this joke is, and if they’ve crossed it already.

*

Weights have never been ideal for Erik due to his mutation. He can’t tell what he’s actually lifting with his body or just with his power, so it’s sort of moot. Weights aren’t even an option for Charles, who walks on jelly legs with a red face and red neck, and a red collar. They aren’t even on the floor for half an hour before Charles is dragging Erik back to the locker rooms and calling it quits.

“How can people,” he starts. “How can people _want_ to do this?”

Erik ignores him. “I told you, you would overheat wearing all that,” he mutters, filling up Charles’ bottle anew from the sink and walking over to where he stands by his bag. “You want to shower here?”

The look Charles gives him is answer enough, but he says quietly, “Someone could see me.”

“Would you like to come back to mine, then?” He’s not even thinking when he walks over and pulls Charles’ sweater off.

“Alright.” Charles voice is muffled in the thick fabric of the jumper, and when it finally pulls of his head, his hair has gone awry and sticks up at odd angles from the sweat. Erik combs his fingers through the mess in an attempt to flatten it down. The cool wet on his hand doesn’t bother him one bit.

There’s a kid from Charles’ tutoring that he knows in the lobby on the ground floor of the centre, not one from the other day, a different group, and he chats with Charles for a few minutes before Erik slides his cool gaze onto the child and he says a stuttered good bye and shuffles away. Charles tuts and hits Erik’s bicep with the back of his hand.

They drive their own cars back to Erik’s, and Charles wants to race, as usual, but Erik cuffs him over the head gently and mutters something in German before unlocking his car and leaving the park before Charles. The parking for Erik’s apartment complex has a guest section and a tenant section, but Charles forgoes that and slots into the space next to Erik with a cheeky grin.

There’s something wild in Erik’s chest that makes his heart thunder and his eyes crinkle when he watches Charles hurry past him with his bags, and as he pulls himself from his car he absently flicks his hand to open the lobby for Charles, whose grin is so big Erik can still see it. The kid hurries inside, out of Erik’s vision, but Erik’s heart is still beating fast and his mouth is untameable.

Charles is waiting for him by his front door when Erik steps into the hallway, and Erik opens the door for him with his powers again. Charles is delighted, and his beaming grin sears into Erik and his gut, and Erik sort of wishes Charles _would_ listen to his thoughts so that he’d know what he’s doing to him. He has to be able to feel Erik’s emotions, the same way Erik can sometimes feel Charles’ happiness or unhappiness when they’re pressed together and Charles is too wild to control his projections.

“Go have a shower,” Erik tells him when they cross the threshold. He flicks his shoulder. “You stink.”

Charles turns on him with a sour expression, but it’s a joke, it’s fake, just like this, and he drops his gym bag and keys on the lounge before heading into the bathroom.

“Towels?”

“In the cupboard,” Erik shouts back. He flicks on the TV and peruses the channels for lack of anything better to do, scrolls through his phone and his messages, and a short while later, Charles steps out of the bathroom with only a towel around his hips, and Erik tries not to choke on his air.

Charles thumbs towards Erik’s bedroom. “Is it okay if I borrow some clothes? I didn’t bring any clean for afterwards. I still have your other shirt from last time at home, too.”

“I- yeah, that’s- yeah.” His mouth’s gone dry. Charles’ hair is pushed back off his face, and droplets sluice in the dip of his neck and over his chest, catching in the hem of the towel that cuts him at his navel. He’s got freckles, dark and bold and sparse but an asterism across his ribs, his chest, his abdomen and his collar, and Erik wants to kiss and lick and bite his way from one to the other, connecting and joining, while connecting and joining _them-_

“Yeah, sorry. Go ahead,” he manages, turning back to the TV while Charles pads into his room, and he can hear the wardrobe opening, feel the hinges flexing and the coat hangers being rifled, and he breathes slowly; counts the metal, calms down. “Emma said she’ll come over soon,” he calls.

“Oh?”

Emma hasn’t been able to ask much at the restaurant, in case Scott overhears – or anyone else overhears and talks to Scott. They’ve projected and Erik’s explained what’s going on between Charles and himself, and no doubt Charles has talked to Emma in private. She got quiet when Erik told her how Charles had begged him to do this. “She’ll come over for dinner. Is that okay?”

“Of course,” Charles calls back. His voice is a little muffled. The door’s shut. When it opens, Charles is wearing a tee that crumples and folds in the spaces Charles’ body can’t fill, and pants with the ankle cuffs rolled. He has to keep hiking them up on his hips.

“I’m just going to have a quick shower, too. Help yourself to anything,” Erik tells him as he gets up, squeezing Charles’ shoulder as he walks past, and Charles brushes his hip with his fingers. This is just muscle memory, for when they have to act in front of everyone else. That’s all it is.

Charles has hung his towel on the rack next to Erik’s. Erik tries not to think about how normal that looks, as he steps under the water and tells himself that his heart is just in on the charade as well. That’s all it is.

*

Emma arrives a short while later with take out from the restaurant. She’s still in her uniform – double breasted jacked open over a singlet and checked pants – and she drops her handbag and kicks off her boots at the door as soon as she steps into the living room.

“How was work?” Erik calls from the kitchen, pulling out plates and cutlery. Charles gets up from the couch to help her with the bag of takeout containers, and Emma kisses him on the cheek.

“It’s Saturday, it was dreadful. I only got out when I did because I complained to Azazel all night. Armando was giving me a headache with all the stress he was putting off. I think Alex must have taken him down the back and jerked him off because for the evening he was calmer than I’ve ever seen him. Or he can adapt to stress, now.”

“As long as Alex washed his hands after,” Erik mutters. Charles is blushing. 

“So Scott’s brother- Alex, he and the waiter…?”

“We don’t talk about it,” Emma and Erik say in unison. Charles nods quickly and unpacks the bag.

“What about you two?” Emma continues. “You’re both looking fresh and fruity. Showering together now?” She quirks a thin, perfect eyebrow and purses her pink lips. Charles nearly drops a container.

“We showered separately, after we went to the gym at the centre. Though I don’t need to be a telepath to know that Charles hadn’t been to the gym a day in his life prior.”  

“That’s probably true,” Emma concedes with a sigh, ignoring Charles and his stuttering, and falls into a seat at the table. “Why go to the gym anyway, then?”

“I just wanted to see Erik hot and bothered,” Charles informs them with a straight face, and when Erik nearly spills the clump of rice he serves Emma, Charles’ lips turn smug.

“I think you were the one who ended up hot and bothered under all those clothes, _darling_ ,” Erik recovers. 

“This is a fake relationship, right?” Emma interrupts. “Please, I get enough on-off love-hate tension from Summers and Muñoz. This is meant to be my safe place. Erik, hide those thoughts like you normally do.”

Charles brings over a pitcher of water and some glasses, but his ears are red and his eyes are down. Emma piles the food onto her plate and waves her hand as she chews. “How goes it all, though? Fake boyfriends? I think you have the entirety of the staff convinced. And how was the meeting, Charles? Sorry to leave you there.”

“Things are good,” Charles says casually. “The meeting was good. They just wanted to talk about Erik. Some, ah- notable things, about Erik, really.” He glances away but Emma doesn’t let him go so easily.

“They wanted to know how big his dick is?” She asks when she finishes chewing her food. Erik snorts and Charles goes even redder.

“Well, yeah. Of course.”

“What did you tell them?” Erik asks with warm humour in his voice. Charles looks like he’s about to cry.

“I told them I didn’t know,” he says finally.

“How disappointing,” Emma sighs. “Erik, how big is your penis again?”

“Seven and a half inches,” Erik tells them casually as he cuts into a strip of eggplant. Charles splutters around his water.

“Careful, darling, or that’s not the only thing you’ll be choking on,” Emma says gently, and Charles throws his napkin at her.

“Both of you stop it, or I’m going to lose my appetite.” Emma only hums mischievously. Charles continues. “Jean told me to pass this on to you, Emma; she’s having a house party not next Friday night but the one after, and we’re invited. You too, Erik. But I told her we might not come because we already have plans. I just don’t really want to go.”

“Why not?” Erik asks. Charles bites his lip.

“Jean’s one of my best friends, but I just don’t think I can handle a house party with so many drunk seventeen year olds. I’ve graduated high school.”

“It could be fun,” Emma says with a shrug. “It’s another opportunity to prove to people you’re in a relationship.”

Charles sighs in agitation. “Yes, but, this has already gone on long enough. Erik, I’m wasting too much of your time with this. For all Jean, and everyone else, knows, we’ve been together for a month already. Even though we said we’d wait longer to break up, I-” He pauses for a moment, and then continues quietly, “Raven told me that our mother knows.”

“Oh. Right,” says Emma solemnly. Erik doesn’t understand the issue, but he keeps quiet – partly because he’s intrigued, mostly because he’s worried he won’t be prepared enough to contain the slew of emotions and thoughts he knows will come when Charles finishes what he’s trying to say.

“I just don’t want to be a burden on you anymore, Erik. I think we should tell people we’ve broken up.”

Erik chews slowly, and thinks, in German, that it really isn’t supposed to hurt this much. He knows Emma’s slid her eyes onto him even though he keeps his down, knows she has no qualms delving into people’s minds, knows that she _knows._

“Sugar,” she says to Charles with a smile. “You didn’t know Erik before he met you. He was working open to close nearly every day. Think of this as his annual leave, because the amount of time he’s taken off work so far is the most he ever has and probably ever will. You aren’t burdening him at all. Well, maybe with your laundry, going by how often you wear his clothes, but.”

Charles smiles, but he frowns in thought. “Erik, do you want to go to the party?”

“We can do whatever you want to do,” he manages gruffly. This isn’t really a breakup. There was nothing to break up in the first place.

“Wouldn’t you have to work?”

Erik shrugs. “I can get the night off.” Charles nods, and there’s a palpable tension that fills the spaces between them that they unanimously ignore. Emma tries to joke, and tells stories from work to ease them, but Erik is angry - too angry with himself to pay attention, to listen to anything except for how Charles’ laugh has gone empty again.

After dinner, they sit on the lounge and Erik flicks through the channels on TV. Emma curls into his side with her head on his shoulder and he rubs her back. Charles sits on next to her and takes her stockinged legs into his lap from where she’d tucked her knees up. “My favourite boys,” she says sleepily, and it gets late too quick for Erik to notice. When she leaves, it’s nearly midnight, and Erik looks to Charles, curled up on the other side of the couch, so far away from him, and dozing slightly

Erik knows he’s only going to hurt himself more with this kid. He knows it’s better to break it off now than to keep going, let it turn real, and then have Charles realise he didn’t want to get stuck to an older man and leave him then. But Erik murmurs Charles’ name and rubs his shoulders and eventually the telepath cracks his eyes open, and Erik keeps his voice gentle. “You’re too tired to go home, Charles. You can sleep in my bed tonight.” Erik knows that the kid’s gone, because if he had any level of coherency he would have adamantly protested that notion. Instead, he stands up on wobbly legs and leans into Erik as he takes him to his room and he flops onto the bed, clawing at the duvet and pulling it down.

“Would you like sweatpants to sleep in instead? They’d be more comfortable?” Erik’s hardly finished his sentence before Charles is shimmying out of the black cargo pants, half asleep, and when he almost pulls his briefs down with them Erik’s hands connect with the shells of Charles’ hips, and he tries not to think, not to feel. Not to keep Charles unknowing, but to keep himself sane.

“Stay, this is your bed,” Charles eventually says, after he’s shifted and hiked the pants on, and Erik pulls the sheets up on him. Charles reaches out and wraps his slender fingers around Erik’s wrist, rubbing over his pulse weakly. He almost wants to argue. But there’s no point.

“Okay,” he relents, slipping into his own sleep clothes, and when he crawls onto the other side of the bed, half of him expects Charles to crawl on top of him, but the telepath only curls himself under the duvet, sighs into the pillow and sleeps, and Erik tries to tell himself he’s not disappointed. In sleep, Charles’ mind seeps out like tendrils that wrap around his conscience, and he’s weighty but not intrusive. Sometimes colours flit through Erik’s mind, ones that he didn’t think of himself, brushes of jumbled words that make no sense to him but fit in the cacophony of Charles’ dreams. He holds his breath in case he sees himself.   

He flicks the light out with his powers, listens to Charles’ steady, heavy breathing for a little while, then runs his fingers over the other’s jaw; ends up feeling too guilty and too conflicted and rolls over.

In the morning, Charles is on the opposite side of the bed, exactly where he was last night. The space between them wouldn’t even be two feet, but to Erik it may as well a canyon, a crevasse. Erik had had no dreams of his own, and shared no dreams with Charles. His limbs are only tangled with the sheets, and his hands are only holding onto the casing of his pillow. 


	4. Electing Strange Perfections in Any Stranger I Choose

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listening: [[Someone New](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ax3qCW319nk)]
> 
> I actually saw this song (and Hozier) live in concert last night and he was beyond amazing. if you have the chance to see Hozier definitely go (or listen to his album - a lot of songs can easily be Cherik'd, haha). The song is sort of an anthem for Charles in this fic, and chapters were titled from the lyrics. 
> 
> Thanks so much to everyone for taking the time to read this fic :) x

* * *

 

The next week, Charles comes to the restaurant only twice, and they hardly message. Erik doesn’t mean to take it out on his staff, he doesn’t, but when Scott drops the stack of plates he’s carrying and they shatter in a mess on the floor, Erik slams his fist into the top of his bay. He smooths the dint before anyone can notice. Logan watches him from his periphery for the rest of the night.

When Charles does come to the restaurant it’s with his friends in tow, and he smiles and laughs and touches Erik’s arm after he asks Armando to bring him out the front. Erik doesn’t smile. The icy steel never leaves his eyes, even as he punches the discount code into the register. Charles will lean up to kiss him on the cheek – hardly a kiss, just a quick brush of his lips that leaves a wet, cooling spot on his whiskery skin, so he can get away faster. When Charles had left him like that, with a tight smile and cold uncertainty in his eyes, Erik’s steel work station bowed violent, the knives melted, and the frying pans warped. Even Logan didn’t speak up. It wasn’t even a second before everything was righted – everything, except the clenching in Erik’s heart and the hollowness in his gut.

The second time Charles comes, on Thursday, he barks at Janos that he’s too busy to go out the front, and all the metal in the kitchen vibrates. His anger seeps out into the dining area, and he can feel every knife sliding, separating; every fork stabbing and dragging; every ring on every finger and every zip on each pair of pants. Janos looks at him steadily, with empathy in the tightness of his lips. Erik’s panting heavily by the time he limits the rattling to his own bay. He’s glad Scott isn’t working tonight.

Kurt is the only one who talks to him, flitting to him in soft, rounded German, and it helps. Kurt mostly talks about school, and his family, and how he and Azazel will sometimes race, see who can teleport the furthest the fastest. That makes Erik smile; imagining Azazel losing to this sparky German kid.

Emma avoids him. She hands him orders with a clipped tone, and never meets his eyes. She had asked him out for dinner several times, but he had ignored all her messages, ignored everything that wasn’t to do with work; like he should have done in the first place.

“I’m sorry,” she says, on the next Monday after close. “I’m really sorry I got you into this mess, Erik.” Her voice is quieter, less sharp and clear than he’s ever heard her. She means it. 

A thousand thoughts buzz in his brain, a cacophony of frustration and anger and sadness that makes Emma cringe when he feels her tentative heaviness against his head. He wants to yell at her, wants to tell her, yes, this is all her fault, she dragged him into this, if he’d never gone to that party, if she’d never brought Charles for breakfast – but he knows, that it’s his fault. He knew it was only fake. Charles wouldn’t feel anything for him, and he shouldn’t have felt anything for Charles, because it was a fallacy, a trick. It’s his fault for letting himself go. It’s karma, for _using_ Charles to teach himself how to feel and love.

“It doesn’t matter now,” he says gruffly, and when he finally falls asleep at four am, only to awake again at five with the buzz of his alarm, he finds that those words are applicable to everything.

*

Charles calls him on the Thursday night of the second week. Multiple times. Erik can feel his phone vibrating in his jacket pocket all the way over in the coat and uniform room, and on the fifth time in the span of two hours, he stomps down the back and rips his phone out. His throat is cold and hard and full when he sees it’s Charles. He almost wants to ignore it. But then he’d only call again, and again, and again, and Erik might throw his phone across the damn room in frustration.

He slides the call open. “Yes?”

“Erik,” Charles’ voice is harder than he’s heard it – harder than it was at the lunch. That was nearly a month ago. “Hi. I’m glad I caught you.” When it becomes clear Erik isn’t going to say anything, Charles sighs and carries on. “Listen, I’m so grateful for all that you’ve done for me, I can’t thank you enough, but – Jean’s house party is tomorrow night, and I know I’d initially told her that we weren’t going to come, but-”

 _“No,”_ Erik wants to yell. “No, you don’t get to do that. You don’t get this.” But instead he keeps quiet, and pours his anger into the empty lockers near him; counts the screws in the walls, the fragments of metal chips in the brickwork and the concrete.

“Please, just one last time, I- I’ll pay you even-” Erik’s composure snaps in time with the crinkling of the lockers behind him.

“Oh, you’ll pay me? Like what, like an escort?” He can’t help the biting incredulousness in his tone.

Charles sighs again. “I didn’t mean it like that, Erik-”

“Oh, no, because you didn’t give me an incentive to do this for you in the beginning, either.” He swallows, tries to, but the lump in his throat is heavy and unmovable. “I’ll do it. I’ll come. But then this is it.”

“Thank you, thank you so much, Erik.” Charles’ relief seeps through the phone, and Erik tries not to let that voice in again. “I’ll pick you up tomorrow at seven, so you don’t have to pay for fuel. Thank you so much, Erik, you can’t know how-”

“See you at seven, Charles,” Erik tells him coolly, before ending the call.

He goes out the back for a smoke, and then two, and then soon half the packet is gone and the stale in his mouth is stinging nearly as much as his eyes and his chest. He’ll burn out every breath of Charles he took. Logan comes to check on him, tells him he’s been gone for forty minutes, and if he needs to go home he can hold the fort and close with Marie. Erik tells him he’s fine, with a voice that’s dry and cracked and caked in ash, and slides past Logan, and ignores the man’s sigh.

He wakes up at five am like normal, in a haze of overtired anxiety and empty hunger and empty- _something-else._ He’ll work today, work every moment he can to keep busy, as if stalling for tonight. When he shows up to work, Emma’s setting up the cake display at the café bar of the shop, and she stills, bent at the hip, and watches Erik walk out to the back. Erik traces the movement of her earrings, but he’s still surprised when he feels her arms around his torso, her jaw pressed against his shoulder and the soft waves of her hair brushing against his cheek. She smells sweet and fruity, and Erik can taste the cold of her toothpaste in the back of his throat when she sighs and he breathes her in.

“You’re a good man, Erik. For doing this. I shouldn’t say this, because I know you won’t believe me, but I don’t need to go into Charles’ head to tell you he does feel for you.” Erik snorts, and they both ignore the way his shoulders tremble.

“Obviously,” he bites.

Emma sighs, and rubs his arms as she pulls away. “Charles’ mother, Sharon Xavier, is more of a mess than he is. If she finds out that you and her son are appearing to be together, real or not, she’ll humiliate Charles, say things just as his friends had when they found out about you two; only this time in high society and in front of press. Charles gave up that life, and he pretends not to care, but reputations – that aren’t even correct – drag him down eventually. You know that.

“Not only that, but if high society found out you’d have cameras here every day, in your face, following you, seeing if you’re an adequate partner for the Xavier heir – they’d bring your religion into it, your mother, anything they could. Charles is trying to protect your name, just like you protected his,” Emma finishes.

Erik’s not sure what to take from that. His lips sting from where he’s bitten and rolled them raw. “The Xavier heir. He’s rich? Why doesn’t he buy himself a better car?” Emma laughs and turns Erik around, strokes his prickly cheek.

“He pours the money from his trust fund into the Mutant Information Centre, and he takes only what he needs to get by. You’ve never seen his apartment, have you? He wants to get his degrees as quickly as possible, so he can make his own money.”

Moments slide by, and Erik watches the sunlight slowly filter in through the glass front over Emma’s shoulder. Her hair is impossibly white, and her skin sparkles. Sometimes in the mornings she’ll slip into her second mutation and take on her diamond form, and when the light pierces through her, a kaleidoscope of rainbows scatter across the walls and the ceiling and the tables. She smiles at his memory.

“Why didn’t he tell me that before?” Erik eventually, quietly manages.

“Because he knew it wouldn’t have stopped you. He knows how you feel, Erik. You’re a terrible liar; so there’s no way your acting is so good that you could convince the entirety of the staff, me, and the Association that you’re in love with him if you’re not.” She squeezes his shoulders and walks back to the cabinet. “He’s always liked you, Erik. He was texting me the entire night of the party about you; and drunk people are honest people.”

*

Work passes quicker than Erik would like it to, and he manages to get home in time for a quick shower before Charles arrives. Erik feels the wreck of a car pull up in the lot, more than a hundred metres away, but when he’s angry or scared or annoyed his mutation is amplified, and he could probably feel every sliver of metal in the complex if he tried to. While Charles has already pulled up, it’s another ten minutes before Charles buzzes him over the intercom. Erik tells him he’ll come downstairs and meet him out the front. What Emma told him this morning is still stuck in his mind, but he doesn’t know what to do with it, so the less time he has to spend with Charles, the better.

Charles greets him with a stiff but polite hello, and Erik nods his head and sets off to Charles’ car. Charles begins to thank him as he trots after him, but Erik tells him no, it’s fine, and shakes his head. They ride in silence, but Charles turns the radio on to fill the gap between them, smother the impasse they’ve come to. Erik’s not sure if he’s relieved that after tonight he’ll never have to speak to Charles again.

No, he knows he isn’t. Not at all.

Charles doesn’t drive as smooth as he does, and sometimes they pull up to a red light too quickly, or he turns too hard and Erik’s centre of gravity shifts for a millisecond. He wants to joke about it. This is something he would have joked about a few weeks ago, but the words get stuck in his throat and burn his lips when he opens his mouth. No sound comes out.

Jean’s house is rather big, and cheap, second-third-fourth hand cars line the street in varied states of battered and bruised. Charles has to park a little further away, and the grass is crisp and crinkles underfoot as they make their way over to the house. The soft thrum of music is audible even from their distance, bass heavy and pulsing. There’s no moon or stars with heavy clouds smothering the natural light, and the street lights catch on Charles’ hair and burn it a bright ginger, and shadows catch in the creases and lines on his face; especially under his eyes. The jumper he’s wearing hangs off him, and hardly gives the illusion of fullness. Erik tells himself it’s not his job to worry anymore – it never was.

When they get to the front lawn, Charles asks if it’s okay if they link arms. Erik agrees. While Erik can’t act, Charles is a natural (but he guesses, he already knew that) and as soon as they ring the doorbell he’s plastered a warm grin on his face. Erik notes that the blue in his eyes isn’t any brighter, certainly not as bright as it used to be, but it’s not something picked up upon by the drunk teenager who opens the door and hollers when he recognises Charles.

They get passed around like a party favour, Charles-and-Erik, laughing and chatting loudly over the music until they find Jean, who has already had a little bit to drink and leans bodily against Charles. Her hair flows like fire down her back, rolling and curling and sweeping, and she stands a little taller than Charles in her heels, who has somehow already managed to fasten a bottle to his hand. Erik makes no comment, even in his mind.

The house is full of people, some of whom he thinks he recognises as people Charles has brought with him to the restaurant, and people he’s seen at the MIC. Party pies and mini sausage rolls with small pots of sauce sit on trays on the dining table with bowls of crisps, and gummy lollies that have probably been doused in vodka. Plastic dollar cups are stacked on the counter, and scattered and crumpled on the floor. Erik can see through the kitchen window a serious game of beer pong taking place out on the back patio, and he hears more than anything Scott Summer’s victorious shouting.

Charles wriggles away from him when he can, going off to talk to other people, and initially Erik follows him, standing behind him but still as intimidating to anyone who might look their way. Then he realises that Charles doesn’t care where he goes, so he wanders away – partly out of spite, if anything – and counts the metal in the house. He eventually finds Armando and Alex in a small alcove off the dining room, Armando seated in the other’s lap on the plush looking couch and the two making out – very tamely and crushingly intimate. Armando’s fingers trace Alex’s jaw, and Alex’s hands rub at his boyfriend’s waist and spine. Erik feels a pang of jealousy, berates himself and hates himself for it, but Alex has opened his eyes and spotted him before he can walk away.

“Erik!” He calls, noise muffled a little by Armando’s mouth still pressing against his. The waiter turns then, shock in his eyes, and Erik waves at the pair a little and tries to smile. “Come in, man! We didn’t know you’d be here!”

Erik tentatively steps into the darkened alcove. There’s a TV opposite Armando and Alex, and it’s playing some Friday night movie that is being completely overpowered by the music. There are a few book shelves and DVD cases against the walls. Alex pats his hand on the lounge next to him, and Erik sits down, slowly and awkwardly. Alex’s cheeks are flushed; from Armando or from alcohol, he can’t tell, but whether it is the intoxication or just being outside of work in general, the two are a lot more affectionate. Armando presses his face to Alex’s neck, and whatever Alex had intended to say to him is stifled by the little gasps and laughs Armando pulls from him when he bites and sucks at his skin.

Ten or so minutes later, of Erik staring awkwardly at his phone and trying not to think about his employees grinding against each other not even a foot away, Alex finally speaks up. “Where’s Charles?” he manages, pushing Armando’s mouth away from him.

“Off with someone, I guess.” Erik tries to ignore the way that sounds, the way his heart is making it sound.

A while later, someone stumbles into the alcove, brown curly hair a mess falling around his ears and sweater loose and hanging. “Erik,” Charles says, and he falls onto his knees on the carpet in front of him. He’s wasted. He’s completely fucking wasted. “Erik, do you know?” He nuzzles his face against Erik’s thigh, and when Erik feels him kissing up his inner leg he pushes Charles away, chest rising and falling rapidly, and holding him back by his shoulders.

“Do I know what, Charles?” He tries not to sound impatient, but he’d rather that than reveal the smart of panic that rises from his chest.

“Do you know how much I love you?” Charles sighs, and puts his face against his thigh again, eyes shut and mouth blessedly still.

The twisting in Erik’s gut makes him want to vomit. He ignores it, and ignores what Charles has said. “Are you okay, Charles? Do you need water?” Charles doesn’t move, dozing and quiet, and Erik sighs and cards his fingers through his hair. His hair’s a little wet with sweat, but it doesn’t bother Erik. Charles could never bother Erik, and that’s the painful truth he never wants to admit – not even to himself.

“Charles!” Alex calls out, when he breaks away from Armando to look at the two next to him, and he nudges the sleeping kid with his foot. “Charles, hey!” The telepath startles, and when he looks up at Alex he’s got a red mark pressed into his cheek from Erik’s leg. Alex has an equally as red mark on his neck.

Charles drags himself up onto the couch, sitting heavily against Erik. “Alex,” he says steadily, “Your boyfriend loves you. Please get married.” Then his head falls onto Erik’s shoulder and in turn, he falls asleep.

Erik figures that because of Charles’ telepathy, he becomes heavily drunk very quickly, and passes out as a result. With so many drunk minds pushing against his own, Erik supposes it’d be hard to ignore the intoxication around him, and easy to absorb it. If this is a regular occurrence for Charles, Erik’s glad he’s the one the kid is sleeping against. No matter how mad at him he may be.

By the time Charles wakes up, Erik has beaten seven levels of the game on his phone and Alex and Armando have moved off somewhere else. Erik remembers, upon Charles awaking, how sober he becomes, and when Charles pushes himself away from Erik with wild eyes that don’t calm in recognition, the anger in Erik that had been replaced with affection resurfaces.

“Erik, hi. Sorry. You should have- woken me up.” He’s running fingers through his cool hair, and throwing glances around the alcove, out to the dining room where people are brutalising the party food.

“You were fine,” Erik tells him firmly. “You shouldn’t drink so much.”

Charles sighs through his teeth in exasperation. “You shouldn’t tell me what to do, alright, but here we are.”

Erik leans back and his eyes narrow. “Sorry, I retract that. Maybe you should drink. You’re much more tolerable when you’re drunk.”

His sharp tongue cuts his mouth as he says the words, and he regrets them instantly. The look Charles throws him leaves him colder than he’s felt anytime in the past two weeks. Erik knows that Charles had been keeping his distance for his sake, he believes everything that Emma told him; but he’s still angry with Charles – angry at himself, angry at… everything. He’d always been mad; he’d just forgotten it when he had a reason to be happy.

“You’re a great man, Erik,” Charles says sarcastically as he stands up, patting his thigh harshly and trying not to wobble on his legs. “Truly, you’re wonderful.” When he steadies he heads off out of the nook, but Erik’s standing and grabbing his arm before he even knows what he’s doing.

“What, so, you’re going to leave, go get drunk again, then comb the house to find me and depend on _me_ , as if it’s my job to care for you? Like I have to make sure you don’t go and do something stupid or get yourself hurt?”

Charles shakes his arm out of Erik’s grip, holds onto the frame of the entrance and spits his words. “I can take care of myself. I don’t need you, Erik.”

“Well clearly you do,” Erik fires back, anger hot in his throat. The unit the TV is sat on begins to vibrate. “Or you wouldn’t have used me to pretend that you could get people to care about you.”

Charles scoffs, but won’t meet his eyes. “I know you’re mad, Erik. You’re so mad I’m picking it up and I’m getting mad. And I know Emma told you why I want to end this-”

“Why didn’t you tell me yourself? We’re meant to be honest with each other-”

“Are we? Because what, we’re dating? No we aren’t, Erik. We _aren’t._ We’re just friends, if that.” Charles’ voice has gone quiet now but still biting, and the anger in Erik’s veins is cold with icy shock. He has no rebuttal, nothing to say to that. Because it’s completely true. They aren’t dating. They never were. Charles owes nothing to Erik.

He’d thought Charles was trying to protect him; trying to keep him away from being dragged into the judgemental clutches of _his_ society, the one he lived through and escaped. Maybe he’d had the wrong idea all along.

He strides out of the nook past Charles, ignoring the way he sighs and calls his name. He doesn’t know where he’s going, but it has to be away. He’s got no car, it’d be a while before a taxi could come. He’s walking out the back when Jean intercepts him, and pushes a bottle of beer into his hand. “You and Charles are staying tonight, aren’t you? Drink up, drink and have fun, you can take the spare room.” She teeters off again, kissing her friends and leaning against walls. Erik wants to throw the bottle of beer on the floor. But he’s angry, angry enough to drink it, take another one from the fridge, and when he finishes the second bottle he finds Charles in the laundry room of the house, sitting against the wall and crying. 

He doesn’t say anything, just slides onto the floor next to him, and after a moment he pulls Charles to put his head on his shoulder. Charles clutches his brown leather jacket, and buries his face against the lapel.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers.

“Me, too,” Erik murmurs back, rubbing small circles over his spine. “I shouldn’t have said a lot of things.”

“I’m sorry, because I want to protect you, but I don’t know the best way to do it.”

Erik smirks. “You don’t need to protect me; I can handle myself. I’m nearly thirty. I could be your grandfather.” Charles chokes on his laughter, but Erik can feel the ease in the kid’s shoulders and neck. They sit for a few minutes, with warmth and Charles’ sniffling between them. “You want to steal Jean’s clothes from the washing machine and hide them in the backyard?” Erik asks, and Charles laughs again; a little harder, a little louder, a little more real.

“That would be terrible, I couldn’t do that to her.” Erik pulls tresses of Charles’ hair behind his ears.

“We could really do anything. We can leave if you want.”

Charles shakes his head, or tries to. He really only rubs his wet nose and mouth against Erik’s jacket, but he doesn’t mind so much. “I can’t drive, and you’ve been drinking. Taxi would cost too much.”

“Jean’s offered us the spare room for the night.”

“That sounds good,” Charles says quietly. This is nice; this is easy. There’s no overthinking and no wayward emotions to seep in and tear things apart. Charles still sniffles a little against his shoulder, and Erik still feels like he’s being ripped in two whenever he remembers what Charles had yelled at him, but if he thinks too long on it Charles squeezes his wrist. “You know it’s not true. You _know,_ Erik. I need you – and not just to pretend for me.

“It’s just- It doesn’t matter what I do, I can’t have a proper relationship because if my family finds out, there will be press and people and if I love someone that much, I wouldn’t put them through that. That’s how I grew up, and I wouldn’t put anyone through that. It’s so much _easier_ to kiss people and leave them, because my family won’t keep tabs on them and I don’t have to worry about if they’re being stalked at night, by people who only want to snoop into my life.”

“We don’t need to pretend anymore, then, if you don’t want. Don’t worry about your family. I can melt their cameras. Or, we can meet your mother initially, clear everything up, make a good impression and leave. Then she wouldn’t need to snoop.”

After a long while, Charles asks, “You’d do that for me?”

“I’d do a great deal for you, Charles. I’m sitting here on these cold, hard tiles, aren’t I?”

“Stop it,” Charles whispers, and Erik doesn’t think he could ever get sick of the way he sounds when he’s happy.

Charles is soft at his side, and Erik soothes the anger out of his shoulders. Charles has his hand on his abdomen, low but not too low, and he rubs his thumb against Erik’s muscles. Charles’ mind is warm, and Erik lets him in when he feels the lapping of Charles’ conscience against his own. Erik keeps pushing his hair behind his ear, and then his hand is in the soft hairs at his neck; and then lower on his neck, and his lips are on Charles’ forehead, and the telepath manages to kiss at the underside of Erik’s chin, which is prickly and unshaven. 

Erik has him wrapped up in his arms before he can realise what’s happening, and he’s laying Charles down on the floor underneath him, one hand underneath his head to save him from the tiles, the other supporting himself as he kneels over him. Charles is looking up at him, blue eyes bright in the room and caught in the sliver of light from the streetlamp outside that filters in through the lace curtains. His freckles are faded and indistinguishable in the fan across his cheeks. The swell of affection in Erik’s chest weighs him down, and he’s got his lips pressed to Charles’ jaw, his cheekbones, his eyebrows, and Charles is laughing, breathy and light.

 _A little lower, love._ When Erik kisses his eyelid, Charles laughs, loud and untamed, and the hands that Charles had pressed against his chest are sliding around to his shoulder blades, up into his hair, fingers knotting in the tufts, and Charles pulls him down gently to press his lips to the corner of his mouth, just like at the tutoring group that feels so long ago now; and then those red chapped lips are on his, rolling and gentle and a little too wet and completely perfect. Charles’ mind is bright in his own and as their mouths fold over each other’s, and their hands caress and stroke and clutch, their thoughts blend in tandem: _Finally._

*

After a little while longer with loveworn lips, they leave the laundry and re-join the party, and Erik is happy to see cups of water replacing the cups of bright vodka that had no doubt filled Charles’ palms hours before. Charles laces his fingers with Erik’s, and leans against him, but they don’t flit around trying to meet every person in the room, like before. Charles isn’t trying to show Erik off like a trophy, or as proof to people.  Not that Erik particularly minded when he did, but this is nicer. The dynamic between them has changed, the air not so thick with tension and anger and frustration, and Erik finds himself able to breathe deep and calm down easier than ever before.

The party is still alive at eleven pm, albeit the music is turned down a little, and when Charles finds Jean again he tells her that he and Erik are going to get some sleep, they’ve had a big two weeks, and they’ll help clean up in the morning. Erik’s not so sure about the clean up, but Charles sends him a mental nudge about being polite and respectful. Erik pinches his waist. When Jean looks at them she doesn’t give them a knowing smirk, or a suggestive wink, and there’s no tightness to her lips that suggests she thinks any differently to their intentions, and Erik finds it honestly refreshing. He’d kiss her himself, but Charles is already leading him up the stairs to the bedrooms. Some kids are doing jaeger-bombs on the landing, and Charles declines when they ask if he’d join.

The room Charles pulls him into is barely furnished but still attractive. The bed’s a double, but it’s small, and when Erik slips under the covers in his underwear and shirt, he can feel the heat coming off Charles even though they’re not touching. The music vibrates in the walls, but Erik’s never felt more tired in his life, never wanted to fall asleep more.

“Thank you, Erik,” Charles murmurs as he rolls onto his side and runs his fingers over Erik’s arm. Erik traces his fingers over Charles’ jaw, and in the morning, when he wakes up with a slight headache and an empty hunger in his belly, Charles’ hair is brushing against his nose, and his back is tucked neatly against Erik’s chest. There’s no one to see this, no one to prove this to. This is for them.

*

They stay together in the morning for as long as they can, falling between dozing and pretending to each other that they’re asleep so they can stay slotted like this. Charles’ mind has entwined with Erik’s, and he sends Erik things – feelings, colours, jumbled words that make sense to Charles as he dreams. When Erik dreams, there’s a warmth in his mind that’s never come with a dream before, like someone there, watching over him, ready to pull him out of any bad dream that he gets himself stuck into.

Eventually Scott bangs on the door and falls into the room, and whatever he’s saying Erik doesn’t care for. Soon though, Charles announces that he’s awake, and opens his squinty eyes to look at Erik. They don’t say anything, but Charles is smiling up at him and he touches his cheek, rubbing the sleep from the corners of Erik’s eyes.

“We should help clean up,” Charles whispers.

“Really?” Erik asks, and Charles snorts and pushes his shoulder. He stretches when he climbs out of bed, and Erik watches his shirt rise, spies the freckles that bracket the bottom of his spine, too. They dip below the elastic of his briefs – when Charles looks back over his shoulder at him, Erik knows he’s heard his thoughts.

Charles pulls on his jumper and his jeans, and laces his shoes while Erik sorts himself out. The clean up isn’t as big an ordeal as Erik had been expecting. There’s bottles strewn over the floor, and some sticky marks on the wood where the vodka has been spilt or has seeped out, but it’s not so bad, mostly because when Erik glances over at Charles, the telepath is wearing the first real little smile he’s seen in weeks.

Charles stacks the dishwasher with the empty plates that once held sausage rolls and other delights, and Erik scoops all the plastic cups from the floor into the trash. Jean is still asleep when they leave, but Charles sends her a text telling her that they’re fine, and that they hope she isn’t too sick.

Outside the sky is grey and heavy, though Erik’s heart is anything but. Erik drives, mostly using his powers to move the car along the road, and they pull in at the restaurant to pick up some take away breakfast. Emma smiles at them when they step up to the counter, looking rundown in yesterday’s clothes and last night’s messy hair, but she doesn’t comment; doesn’t need to. Her eyes don’t linger on their clasped hands.

Charles picks at the food with his fingers as they drive home, and Erik tuts him smacks at his hands. They’re both laughing. They don’t need to fill the space between them with idle talk; the quiet is comfortable, and already filled enough with the warm emotions that Charles projects between them.

It’s raining by the time they pull up to the complex, and Charles clasps Erik’s hand again and runs with him into the lobby, laughing and breathy and soaked, the plastic take away bag knotted and clutched to his chest, crinkly and wet. Water drips onto the carpet as they hurry to the elevator, and in the privacy of the lift Erik is suddenly overwhelmed by the desire to push the telepath against the wall and kiss him.

 _Do it._ He does.

Charles fills his apartment so well that Erik can’t believe he never noticed how empty it was before. He holds onto Erik’s shoulder as he toes his wet shoes off, throws his wet jumper into the small laundry nook, and puts the takeaway into the fridge to heat for later. “Shower now,” he says, and Erik quirks an eyebrow.

“What, together?” Charles shrugs.

“You meant what you said last night? You weren’t just drunk?” He said many things last night, and he meant them all.

“I love you, Charles.” That’s good enough for him.

Erik has time enough to throw his jacket on the back of the couch before Charles takes his hand and drags him to the bathroom. The room is cosy, not cramped, with a toilet filling one corner while the shower stall fills the other. Even though the wind and the rain douses the sunlight outside, they leave the lights off, and the cool shadows in the room do nothing to stifle the heat that smarts in Erik’s lower back and chest.

They stand together, watching and waiting, until finally Erik gingerly pulls at the hem of Charles’ shirt. He nods only slightly, and Erik pulls the shirt off him and casts it into the hamper by the sink. Charles copies him, eyes trailing down the exposed planes of Erik’s chest, unrestrained and wild, and his fingers chase his skin after he unfastens Erik’s belt and pushes his jeans down. Charles’ skin tastes like vanilla when he leans down to suck along at his collar, and his hair smells like cinnamon. Close together like this, Erik realises just how small Charles is against him, how he fills the spaces he’d thought he was content with. Now with Charles, Erik’s not sure how he’s ever gone a day feeling the cool emptiness that swamps him whenever Charles isn’t around.

Erik keeps his marks away from Charles’ neck, knowing too well what nonsense the people in his class and at the centre would cause if they saw. Charles’ fingers thread into his hair, and he clutches at Erik’s hand on his hip with his own, bringing it to the fly of his jeans. Erik smirks against his skin, and he traces the shell of Charles’ hip with his rough fingers while his power ripples through the metal teeth on Charles’ pants.

 _Is this okay?_ He projects.

 _Yes._ The thought floods his mind with a heat that’s wilder than his own that settles in his belly – an unbidden nervousness flits in his chest, and Charles cringes when he pulls away and looks down at him.

“We don’t have to do anything, we can take this slow if you want.”

A jumble of _gosh-he’s-so-good-to-me-he’s-so-good_ seeps into his mind for only a moment before Charles strokes his thumb over Erik’s cheek and smiles. “It’s not that. It’s just that I’ve- I’ve never done this before, really.”

Erik stares at him, frowns, stares some more, and feels like he needs to sit down. “You’re joking.”

Charles smirks at him and pinches his cheek. “I’m not, I’m afraid.”

“Everyone thinks you’ve slept with all these people, and you’ve never- not even-”

Charles simply laughs, and kisses along Erik’s chest sucking at the base of his neck, where he knows the collar of his uniform will cover. “And you?” he asks.

Erik knows that Charles could just dive into his mind – he wouldn’t have to search much, these thoughts are at the forefront of his mind and Charles has probably already picked up upon and heard them, anyway. “I haven’t, either. There’s never been- no one has ever gotten this close to me, before,” he murmurs quietly as Charles hums at his throat, and God, when Charles pours his sensations and his fantasies into Erik’s head, it’s better than anything he’s ever felt alone. Charles’ palm comes down to his navel, and he presses firmly and slides his hand, down down down, over the front of Erik’s underwear, and the shuddering breath Erik sucks in between his teeth does nothing to hide his sensitivity; nor his eagerness.

Charles grins at him, all teeth and young-smugness and Erik’s not sure if he wants to punch him or kiss him; especially when he rubs at Erik in long circles, cupping and smoothing and never relenting in the steady clockwork of his fingers. The choice is taken from him though, when Charles stands on his toes and presses kisses to the edges of Erik’s mouth, eventually locking on his lips. Erik has to grasp the sink counter behind him, and he sighs into the open, inexorable mouth that’s stealing his composure; alongside the hand on his hard cock.

“Just because I’ve never done this before doesn’t mean I don’t know what I’m doing,” Charles whispers between his slow kissing, and Erik sighs again, panting heavily when the telepath continues stroking him. He’s going to come undone like this, pressed against the bathroom sink, in his briefs. Charles laughs at his thoughts. “Maybe we should take them off, then?” When his hands slide to Erik’s thighs, full and muscular and just a little bit on the hairy side, Erik whines and clutches at his shoulder, and Charles hushes him, says, “It’s okay, baby, soon enough,” and sucks in a breath when he finally pulls his briefs down and stares at Erik’s stupidly, impossibly big cock.

Erik grins as Charles’ thoughts flicker through the shared space of their minds, and a primal urge that isn’t just his own pools in his gut when Charles whines lowly, sinking down on his knees in front of the man.

“Seven and a half inches,” Charles whispers.

“Give or take,” Erik mutters back. When he realises Charles intends to get straight to business in his haze of lust, he grabs the boy’s shoulders and pulls him back up. “Shower- we need to get in the shower, or we’ll be out here all day,” he manages dryly.

Charles doesn’t take his eyes off Erik’s body (especially his cock) when he steps out of his underwear and in turn, Erik can’t look at anything but him. He turns the water on with his powers, the dial already set at his preferred temperature, and he doesn’t have time to count each one of Charles’ freckles before the telepath is on his knees in the shower, face level with Erik’s dick, and his thumbs are stroking in the hollows where his thighs meet his crotch, palms braced against the thick muscles in his legs.

“I love you,” Charles murmurs. Erik pants and leans back against the cool tile wall.

“Really? Or are you just saying that because…?” When Charles throws him a look and stands up, he keens.

“Shall I prove to you I don’t just want you for your endowment?” he asks, knowing smile tight in his lips, and Erik wastes no time in turning that smug smile into an open mouthed gasp when he slides his hand over Charles, working him just as he’d done to Erik before.

“Depends how long that’d take,” Erik replies casually, and Charles has to hold onto Erik’s shoulders to keep his shaking legs from buckling. Erik’s hands are rough and dry with burn scars and callouses, but they’re slow and gentle, and bring out breathless moans from deep in Charles’ throat, and clipped sighs from his heaving lungs. The stall is small, and Charles grapples to find anything to push himself against, to keep himself upright when Erik’s touches draw louder and louder moans from his chest. The water is hot, Erik watches it sluice down Charles’ trembling body as he leans over him, breathless from the way Charles fills his mind with the heavy arousal that’s filling between his legs.

“I’m going to come if you don’t stop that,” he pants, and Erik grins.

“Isn’t that the point?”

“Not- not yet, I don’t want to- not yet.” He sinks to his knees to escape Erik’s grip when he starts to stroke him off, long fingers wrapped around him and working him slowly and steadily.

As payback, Charles wastes no time in opening his mouth and taking Erik’s cock, sucking him off with his palms flat on the points of his hips, and his eyes piercing through Erik when he glances up. The air is heavy with steam, Charles opens his mouth a little wider, pushes forward a little further, moans a little louder around Erik, and Erik presses his hand to the top of Charles’ head, fingers knotting in his wet-darkened hair and thumb stroking along his scalp.

“Fuck, Charles, _fuck,_ ” he moans, when Charles manages to lax his throat enough to take Erik in, his nose pressed against the thick shock of dark hairs that stretch up to his navel, and suddenly Charles is moaning himself, loud and unrestrained and _real,_ and he slides his hand up over Erik’s abdomen to stroke the sensitive skin on his side. Erik’s legs begin to shake in tandem with the trembling in Charles’ shoulders, and their shared mental space is hazy and full in a combination of satisfaction and the need to satisfy. The metal showerhead, the faucets, and the brackets the glass walls of the stall sit in begin to vibrate, as Erik’s control gradually slips, along with his composure.

Charles is whispering in his head but he can’t make any sense of it, his mind too far gone to understand any of the dirty talk Charles is murmuring behind the roaring in his ears. Erik briefly remembers the bottle, at Raven’s party, and the relentless way Charles just kept _taking it_ , watching him and holding him and parting his mouth for him, parting his mouth to take his cock, and when Erik comes, he comes with Charles name gasped through his grit teeth, and his hands touching the kid wherever he can find him.

Charles pulls back a little to catch him in his mouth rather than down his throat, and his lips roll gently over the hot skin of his cock, tongue laving slowly around him and whispering _yes, come on Erik, come on baby, keep coming for me, keep coming_ and the strangled moan that he tears out of Erik’s chest fills the stall with his own pants, and his heavy breathing through his nose. Before he can become oversensitive, as if Charles knows the exact moment when it’s all too much, Charles pulls his mouth away and quickly spits down the drain, rinsing his mouth out briefly while Erik stares at the ceiling and rubs at his own face. He’s boneless against the wall, and Charles slowly rises, and presses himself bodily against the man.

His fingertips trace Erik’s jaw, and his blue eyes stare up at him imploringly, cock pressing hotly against Erik’s still-trembling thigh, a juxtaposition when coupled with the innocent flush on his cheeks and the curls of his hair in his wide eyes. His mouth is still, not smiling or smirking, and hardly inches away from Erik’s own – but not for long. Charles is soft at his waist, pliable and small, and Erik’s thin hands cup around his sides, holding him close as he takes the telepath’s mouth in wet, hot kisses.       

Erik turns them around, pressing Charles against the glass wall and pushing his chest to him to keep him still as he steals kisses from his slack mouth. “I take it that we’re skipping the meeting today?” he whispers, voice gravelly and raw from his moaning. Charles whines against him, against the hot enclosure he provides with his body, and his hips jerk, cock rubbing on Erik’s thigh messily. “Not here,” he continues, and sucks an angry mark into the sinewy juncture of Charles’ shoulder and neck. He owns a few nice scarves, Erik knows.

He stretches his powers to the tap and cuts the water, his hands chasing the droplets down Charles’ skin, and Charles claws against his shoulder blades and gasps when Erik’s hands finally come to his front and fondle him easily. “You’ll have to wait a little longer,” Erik murmurs, when Charles begins snapping his hips and sliding his cock through Erik’s slick, warm palms, and he slides his hands back to Charles’ bony hips, caressing the dimply skin and squeezing the tender flesh of his thighs under the swell of his backside.

Charles is small and Erik is strong, years of carrying brown paper sacks of flour toning his arms and strengthening the muscles in his back. When he slips his hands under Charles and hikes him up, he hardly struggles or strains, and Charles moans, quickly wraps his legs around his waist and grinds against the flat planes of his belly, spurring him to get to his bedroom faster. Erik opens the shower door by its metal linings and steps onto the floor mat. They’re dripping on the tiles; Erik can hardly bring himself to pull away from the kiss to tell Charles to grab the towel, but he doesn’t need to – Charles reaches out to the rack and clutches the material with one hand, the other memorising the sharp angles and cuts of Erik’s face.

Charles attempts to pat them dry as Erik walks them to the bedroom, and Charles is dry enough by the time Erik lowers him to the bed and crawls on top of him. Lightning brightens the room momentarily, thunder rolling in time with Charles hips and as loud as Erik’s heart. “I love you,” he murmurs against Charles’ ribs as he kisses each line, and Charles says, “I know. Hurry up.”

Erik sucks angry lovebites into the pale white flesh of Charles’ inner thighs, ferocious purple bruises that Charles will trace later on while Erik sleeps and their minds are granted a short moment of privacy. Erik slides to his knees, dragging Charles’ body to the edge of the bed where he’s knelt against the carpet. Charles’ legs fall open wide for him, ready for him, and when Erik takes the telepath’s cock in his mouth he does it smoothly, in one go, all the way til the reddy brown hair in swathes on his skin presses to Erik’s nose.

The noise Charles emits is wild and high, unrestrained and guttural, and he feels Charles in the most intimate way possible, feeling the rolling pleasure that seeps into Erik’s bones and the tightness between his hips that comes direct from Charles’ core. Erik brings a forearm to press along his waist, hand pushing down just above his cock and creating a burning pressure as he deepthroats the boy, sucking him off, hungry for his pleasure and feeding off his cries.

Charles’ skin is raised with goosebumps, either from the wet chill lingering on his skin or from how Erik runs his broad hands over his body, moving his head steadily and taking him down his throat, pulling off, going back down, pulling off, leaving Charles a writhing, keening mess on the bed. Erik turns the heating on regardless, only a little, and the clicking of the thermostat is mutually ignored. Charles’ hands move, from Erik’s hair to the duvet to Erik’s shoulders to his hair, never finding purchase long enough before his seizing muscles leave him needing something else to grip. Erik hums, deep and low with the tenor of his voice, rich as coffee and thick as honey, and Charles shouts, tries to sit up, but Erik pushes him back down and holds him flat against the bed. He doesn’t put up much of a fight, weak and wanton.

 _Come in my mouth,_ Erik thinks _, come down my throat,_ and Charles laces his fingers with Erik’s left hand before he moans loudly, relenting his body and his mind to Erik as he comes thickly in the man’s mouth, and the overwhelming combination of _IlovehimIlovehimIlovehim_ and the pleasure that drips from Charles like the stray droplets from the shower leaves him kneeling there a little stunned. He pulls his mouth away from Charles, and presses his lips to the tender skin around Charles’ groin, eyes flicking up to him when Charles pushes himself up on his elbows.

His hand comes to Erik’s face, stroking his cheek, and Erik kneels at his feet, a slave to his every whim and desire, like he always has been, and like he always will be.

Charles’ smile is only small, a content tightness in his lips, but it makes Erik’s heart flutter, and it beats even harder when Charles stands and combs his fingers though his damp straggly hair as he walks to the closet, pulling out a pair of sweat pants and a pair of flannelette pants from where he _knows_ they’re kept. Erik takes a swig of water from the bottle on the nightstand, watches Charles pad back over to him. There’s a wordless buzz in the back of his mind, the place where Charles hides, and there’s no thoughts, just feelings, just the overwhelming swell of their shared love and happiness that fills his brain and leaves him a little dizzy.

Charles pulls on the sweat pants, and Erik pretends he isn’t watching the curve of his spine, pretends he isn’t disappointed when the swell of his backside is covered again. Charles scoffs at him and throws him the flannelette pants.

“That was good,” Charles finally says as he shimmies over to the middle of the duvet, and slides underneath. Erik’s gone to brush his teeth quickly, but the bathroom door is open, and he can see the lump Charles makes under the covers from across the hall.

“I’m glad you thought so,” Erik says with a smirk when he steps back into the room. The curtains are pulled, but it’s too dark outside anyway with the storm for there to be much natural light, and the lamp on Erik’s side of the bed is on. Charles is so small with the covers a nest about him, pillows in all the places Erik assumes he likes. He’s like a kid – he _is_ a kid, really – swamped in the heavy materials and blankets, and he grins at Erik toothily. “Aren’t you hungry? We can nap later.”

Charles’ grin turns wild and wicked. “I’m not hungry anymore.” Erik flushes and looks at the curtains.

“Move over. You’re taking up too much of the bed, it’s rude.” He manages eventually, throwing the covers away from Charles so he can slip underneath, and Charles shouts and laughs when Erik’s cold hands wrap around his chest, fingers dancing along his sensitive skin, and tracing all the love marks he’s left. He didn’t get away from Charles’ mouth unscathed, either though; he eyed each mark in the mirror as he brushed his teeth, thought about what it meant, to have Charles claim is body, claim is mind, as his own. He locked those thoughts away, though. Not for now. Not for today. Today was a good day, a lazy day, one for napping and eating and making love.

Charles slots against his chest like he’s always done, like he always will, perfectly and completing; Charles is the calming cigarette on a stressed to death day, and he’s the warm buzz of alcohol for Charles on a lonely night. The telepath mouths along Erik’s collarbone, laving his kiss-worn skin with more love. Erik runs his hand down Charles’ back, the velvety skin between his shoulders where he’s a little oily, and the soft hairs that gather and fan at the base of his neck. The rain falls in sheets outside, thunder warm and solid above them, the way Charles is warm and solid above him.

He’s young, and he’s studying, and he’ll go on to great things, but Erik will always follow him, whether he’s drunk at a party or needing someone to lie for him. He’s got family issues, but everyone does, and they’ll cross that bridge when they get to it. For now, Erik’s happy to doze and breathe in the vanilla cinnamon of his skin, listen to the pattering rain outside, and feel the heart and mind that’s fluttering in tandem with his own.

*

When Erik wakes, a little while later, it’s because of the buzzing in the pocket of Charles’ jeans; the buzzing that’s been constant for the better part of an hour on the cusp of his subconscious. Charles is dead weight on top of him, mouth open against his chest and drool pooling and cooling near his collar. Erik tries to shift him awake, but his arm’s gone to sleep from where Charles is sleeping on it, and Charles’ hair is somehow in his mouth and sticking in his nose. The rain’s stopped now, only a few periodic clangs against the railing of Erik’s balcony, and it’s on the brink of darkness when he shifts the curtains with his power to see if any light can come in. “Charles,” he rasps, bucking his hips a little to move the kid. “Your phone is ringing.”

“I don’t care,” comes the quiet, teenager-akin whine, and Erik snorts, inhales Charles’ hair and promptly sneezes.

*

The calls had come from a slew of people, ranging from Tabitha, then to Jean, and finally to Raven, who had left an angry voicemail that Charles killed halfway through listening. Emma left a text, that read, I’m _not calling because_ I’m _considerate, and I know where you are, but please hurry up and tell your family and friends you’re alive._

Erik had a text from Emma as well, short and succinct: _Please stop fucking Charles for a moment so he can call people back._ She was a lot crasser with Erik than Charles had ever known her to be, judging by the screwed up look the telepath folds his face into when he reads her text to Erik’s phone.

While Charles calls Raven, Erik heats the take away they got in the morning. It’s four pm now, he’ll need to go to shift in an hour or so. The smart of concern in his chest fades quickly when Charles, from across the way seated on the couch, quenches it with a press of reassurance in his mind; he has assignments to work on, so he’ll stay here and finish his school work, don’t worry about entertaining him.

They eat on the couch, flicking through the late Saturday programs, often finding them limited to Get Away, homemaker do-it-yourself shows and the obscure documentary usually found on the foreign TV channels. Charles wriggles his toes against Erik’s thigh. He’s wearing another oversized shirt – but really, all of Erik’s clothes are oversized on Charles – looking haggled and worn out with his hair slicked and flattened in awkward places, but he’s happy, and so is Erik, and Erik thinks, that’s all that matters.

Charles walks with him down to his car to get his textbooks when it’s time for Erik to go on shift, pulling him down for a kiss before Erik hurries from the damp into his car. Erik pulls out of the carpark, and waves his hand to open the lobby for Charles as he drives past it. He’ll have to get him a key, he thinks idly. Maybe he’ll make one tonight after work. He’s not sure if that’s too soon or not. When he glances at his rear vision mirror he sees Charles standing just inside the lobby, arms logged and heavy with his books and his future, but grinning happily, and Erik thinks, after all this time, it couldn’t be soon enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This last chapter may have seemed a lil rushed or pushed together to try and tie things up, because it kind of was. The fic wasnt meant to come out quite as long as it did, and certainly wasnt meant to have its own universe. But, i will be adding more to this au, and loose ends will be cleaned up (hopefully)! :)


End file.
